Clarity
by Jay Nice
Summary: After the fire, Dean stopped talking. Same goes for after the Shtriga incident. And Stanford. It's his way of coping and shielding himself from anything else that could hurt him. A glimpse into times in Dean's life where he's stopped talking. Chapter Nine: Swan Song.
1. The Memory Remains

**This is going to be a new series I'll be starting on times in Dean's life in which he's stopped talking. Each chapter will be like it's own little one-shot. Hope you enjoy!**

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John Winchester sleeps on his stomach with a knife and a gun under his pillow. His right hand clutches the handle to an old Beretta, since he'd always been better at shooting with his dominant hand, and his left hand holds the leather hilt of a serrated, silver dagger. Even as he's in a deep slumber, he makes sure that he has those two things tightly grasped in his hands. That way, if anything comes into their motel room at night, John will be ready. He won't let an evil thing take him from his sons, or his sons from him. The fire will not repeat, and John will never lose an important person in his life again. He's going to protect those two boys from the things that go bump in the night, or he's going to die trying. Dean, five-years-old, still isn't speaking, and John knows that he has to save his traumatized little boy. Dean knows about monsters, and John has sworn to protect him from them. If that in turn means sleeping with a loaded gun underneath his pillow, then so be it. No demons will be sneaking up on John Winchester this time. This time he'll be alert, and ready.

From what he can hear, Dean's still asleep with Sam in the other bed. The infant, almost one-year-old now, makes little baby noises as he slept, and Dean is surely snuggling his brother close to his chest, making sure that he doesn't go anywhere. Knowing that his boys are safe for the time being, John lets himself drift off at three in the morning.

But, of course, he isn't fully sleeping. He needs to be alert and ready for if—no, _when_—something sneaks into their motel room and tries to take his kids away. He knows that the monsters are out there, and that they will come for him. They did the night of the fire, but what about now? His grip on his weapons never falters, making sure that when he's attacked, the sucker won't stand a chance. It'll be sliced, shot, whatever it takes to keep the thing from advancing. Once upon a time, he used to sleep like a rock. Mary would laugh at how he could sleep through his alarm and would only awaken after she shook him for a good ten minutes. The old John Winchester had liked his sleep, savored it. Now, however, he barely sleeps at all, and when he finally does turn in, the sweet pulls of unconsciousness seem to be forever out of his grasp. Not that he minds anymore. He's learned to cope. Some nights he has a little sleeping aid, also knows as a beer or two, which gives him what he needs to get through a night without the nightmares. He can't sleep every night knowing that his dreams will be haunted with depictions of demons and vengeful spirits and _Mary_. The nightmares often don't let him glean any rest from his four hours a night, so going to bed a little wasted helps to ward them away.

It's at sometime in the wee hours of the morning during which John feels a dip in his bed. He's instantly fully awake, alert to whatever has shaken him out of his slumber. Yes, there's _definitely_ something making its way across his bed. Both of John's hands tighten their grips, and he steadies his breaths so that he can further assess the situation. The creature (or whatever it is) is crawling on four legs. John doesn't have a large encyclopedia categorizing different types of monsters in his mind yet, but logic tells him "animal, not human," and he figures that a knife seems more fitting. There's salt lines around the room, so it can't be a ghost or a demon, if he recalls correctly. He abandons his handgun in favor of the large knife in his left hand and places it in his right; he doesn't know what this creature is, but it won't stand a chance against John Winchester, amateur hunter extraordinaire. The creature is slow, he can tell that much, or is it just acting slow to throw him off? It could be trying to keep its movements dull and lethargic as to not wake John, and thus not be attacked. But if that's its goal, the monster has miserably failed, and now John is ready to slit this thing's throat and thus end its grievous existence on earth.

His breaths are slow and calculating, muscles tense, ready to deliver the blow that's needed. The thing is slowly making its way closer, and John twists his body, shooting up and aiming the knife at where he'd previously calculated that the creature's neck is. He doesn't slice, instead boring into the creature's bright green eyes. He wants to see the light fade as it dies, the sense of failure. John has saved his family from yet another threat, and no creatures will ever succeed in taking them away from him.

Wait, green eyes? John blinks. He _knows_ those green eyes...

"Oh my god," he whispers, knife dropping from his clenched fist and onto the bed.

Looking back at him in horror is Dean, mouth agape in a silent scream and eyes wide. He looks too shocked to do anything but sit there and quiver. John Winchester, amateur hunter extraordinaire (yeah right, who would believe that now?), had almost knifed his oldest son. He reaches out a consoling hand towards him, but Dean only jumps off the bed and runs away from his father. The killer.

John feels tears welling in his eyes. The look of unadulterated terror on his own son's face is one he knows will haunt his dreams tonight, if he can even fall asleep. He can't believe that he had been so _careless_. He'd been too absorbed in his own, monster-filled world to even think about the movement in his bed being his own son seeking comfort. There had been only a handful of nights in which Dean hadn't had nightmares since the fire, and tonight seems to be one of the more common ones. Dean never screams, his voice doesn't even seem to work for that, so it's up to John to listen for his son tossing and turning in the night to know if he's having a bad dream. It must have been really bad, because Dean has never once come to his father after one.

"Dean," John hisses into the darkness of the night. "Dean, it's all right, kiddo. I thought that..."

He can't finish his statement, though. "I thought that you were a monster coming to kill me in my sleep" doesn't exactly pull any nominations for "Best Parent of the Year." As much as Dean seems to have accepted the fact of monsters really living in the world, John doesn't want to further affirm the fact. Dean needs as normal a childhood as he can get. Though John, nearly blinded by revenge for his wife's gruesome death, doesn't know how well he can supply that for his boy.

He gets no response—no surprise there. John hides his knife back in its spot underneath his pillow and scrambles out of bed, careful to watch for any sign of his boys on the floor because neither of them are on the bed they had been sleeping on. Dean must have taken Sammy to wherever he had scampered off to.

John scans the room briefly, not seeing or hearing either son. He then proceeds to the bathroom, as that seems like a reasonable hiding place for a five-year-old and his baby brother. Dean's most likely terrified at this point, which is entirely John's fault. He'd witnessed the boy squeeze himself between the toilet and the wall before when he was scared, so it doesn't seem like an unusual feat for the small boy to accomplish. Upon entry to the tiny washroom, John sees his guess to be correct. Like a cat trying to fit itself into the smallest of boxes, Dean is scrunched in the tightest spot possible in the small bathroom. His eyes are closed, holding a death grip on Sammy, and John notices that his oldest son looks pale, certainly sporting more of a pallor than he had mere hours before. John's stomach sinks when he sees the telltale signs of fever on his cheeks and the swollen, runny nose.

John kneels down in front of him, not making sharp movements as to startle his boys. "Dean?" he says, trying to keep his voice soft and tender. "Dean, come on out."

Dean shakes his head, peeking his eyes open the slightest bit. John sees that they were red-rimmed and full of tears. His heart clenches, knowing that _he_ has caused those tears.

"Let's get Sammy to bed," John suggests. He knows that even if Dean doesn't want to be around his father—because why would he?—the little boy would look for the best interests of his brother. "Then we'll see what's up with you, okay?"

Dean nods slowly, reaching out his arms warily to hand the youngest Winchester to his father. John takes the child, thanking the heavens that he's still asleep. With a distressed Dean to deal with, he hardly needs a fussy baby on his hands as well. John watches as Dean works his way out of the hiding spot and stumbles slightly with every step he takes. He follows his father like a little duckling as John tucks Sammy back into his makeshift bed which consists of a bunch of blankets shaped into a barrier around where the infant would sleep so that he doesn't roll off the bed. Though John doubts he actually sleeps there, as ten times out of ten Dean is sleeping with Sam wrapped in his thin arms.

Once the baby is settled, John shifts his gaze towards his eldest. The child is slumped, sweaty, and just looks plain miserable. As John crouches down to get on eye-level with Dean, he notices with a cringe how his son flinches away from him the slightest bit. "I-I'm sorry, Dean," he says, voice quivering a tiny bit. "You know I still care for you and Sammy, you just startled me, is all."

Dean blinks with owlish eyes. His face shows no emotion, and it's moments like these in which John wonders whether or not Dean actually understands what he's saying. He never says any words, and John wishes that he would at least hear a "Daddy" or a "Sammy" again. His son's sweet voice would certainly help him make it through these hard nights, but he doesn't talk at all. He simply stares, taking in the world, but not quite participating in it.

John swallows back the lump in his throat that develops from his thoughts of before the fire. Before their lives took a one-eighty into hell. Dean was the liveliest kid in the world. Now he's a shell of his former self. "Now, how are you feeling?" John asks, turning his attention to how not good his son is looking.

Dean shakes his head, longish blonde hair waving with the slightest movement, a silent testament to how rotten he's feeling. Dean's whole figure is slouched tiredly, and he looks sticky with sweat. His hair is plastered down to his forehead in a way that can't be too comfortable John cups his boy's face in his hands, not liking the warmth seeping from it. Dean's chest is rumbling, and the child lets out a strained cough when John lays a hand against his torso. John inwardly sighs. A sick kid really doesn't fit into his busy schedule. He has research to do. The thing that killed Mary is still out there, and John won't rest until it's found and destroyed.

Woeful thoughts of revenge fill his mind, but glancing back to the destitute child before him, he thinks that maybe revenge will have to wait. Right now, his son needs him, and he intends to be at least a decent father for the time being.

"I know you probably won't answer me," John mutters, "but what hurts? I can tell fever, cough, runny nose, what else?"

Dean shifts his weight, looking a bit uncomfortable under his father's scrutiny. John pinches the bridge of his nose in sudden unkempt annoyance. "Dean, if you want me to be able to help you, you're gonna need to answer me."

Dean rubs his eyes in fatigue, sniffling a bit.

John growls. "Dean, use your voice and answer me!" he shouts as loudly as he can without waking Sammy. "I know you can talk, so just say something! Anything!"

Dean's tiny neck bobs with a thick swallow. The boy shivers and looks close to tears again, a disturbed look appearing on his face.

John runs a hand down his face. He recognized the loss and pure emotional pain that his son bears. He holds the same agony, only it feels tenfold. Dean misses his mother and has to take care of Sammy, yes, but John is now loaded with the guilt of not having saved her, the torture of seeing his eldest not speaking a single word, knowing that Sammy will never have a mother, and hunting down the thing that destroyed their lives in order to get what he wants the most: revenge. "I miss her too, Dean, but you don't see me shutting down and hiding inside myself, do you?" He's working up a fury now, releasing all of the anguished emotions about his son's silence that have been building up for five months now. "You've had you're coping time, so please just talk to me!" He rubs his eyes, which have begun tearing up. His lip is doing that funny little jig that it does when he's about to start bawling, so he calms his emotions down just in time. He needs to seem strong, for Dean. "God, I miss her," he whispers, holding his head in his hands. "I just…I need you to stay with me, Dean. You can't fall away now, I need you. Sammy needs you."

Dean is crying as well now, but doesn't make a sound. The wet tears stream down his face like an orderly procession and mingle with the fever-induced sweat beads along his cheeks, but he doesn't say a word, doesn't even sob. It's kind of eerie how he can even cry without making any noise. In a show of selfless compassion, Dean reaches out and hugs his father, squeezing as tightly as a five-year-old possibly could. His tiny fingernails dig into the fabric of John's thin shirt as he holds on for dear life. John embraces his son back, appreciating the motion of consolation, even if it isn't accompanied by words. Through his sleep shirt, John can feel the raging fever from Dean's face and is reminded of the present situation. Dean is sick, and he needs to take care if him.

"Come on, kiddo," he murmurs. "Let's head off to bed for the night. I'll get you some meds in the morning when we're both a little more in our right minds."

Dean nods against his chest, and John carries his eldest, the boy clutching his father for desperately as if he's scared John will disappear, to the bed where Sammy is sleeping. There, Dean positions himself in John's stomach, curling into his father's warmth like hasn't done since before the fire. John has sweet memories of Dean doing the same thing to Mary on nights in which he'd fallen asleep in her arms. He had fit perfectly into her petite form, and always sought her out for comfort. When Mary was busy or unavailable, he would come to his father and John would be just as welcoming. Watching the Sunday night game with a beer in hand, Dean would curl up like a little kitten on his lap (there again with the feline analogies) and fall asleep, but not before asking a million questions like "What are the guys in the red doing?" or "Do you think I'll ever play football like those guys?" John reaches out a spare arm to Sam, keeping both of his sons close in case anything might happen to them. Looking at his current situation brought tears to his eyes. Never again will Dean watch a football game with the same fascination while Mary gently nurses Sammy. Never again will Sam have a nurturing mother to care for him. Never again will John hear Dean speak, he's come to fear. Surely five months is long enough? Surely Dean should have gotten over his silent vigil already?

John sighs in anguish. Their family is far from healed, but for the first time, and quite possibly the last, John Winchester sleeps without a gun and knife under his pillow. His hands don't clutch the deadly weapons, instead holding his sons close and shielding them from the world. As long as John Winchester has his boys, nothing can destroy the small family. Nothing.

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	2. 5 Minutes Alone

**Here's part two! I'm so delighted with all of the response I've recieved! Thank you to AltoOwl, kylermallory, wholockianraptor,m, Vampy, and A Guest for reviewing!**

**This one is set after the Shtriga attack of Sam and Dean's childhood. Hope you enjoy!**

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"Daaaddyyy!"

John's head is torn up from his book—a very heavy reading on the differences between the physical attributes and mentalities of shape shifters and skin walkers—to see a tearful five-year-old Sammy running towards him, face red and nose snotty. John's immediately concerned; is he hurt? Sick? Where's Dean? His stomach clenches painfully at the last thought that grips him: Is there a monster?

"What's wrong, Sammy?" he asks tenderly as the flurry of tears and screams that was Sam flings himself into his father's arms.

Sam sniffs, looking up with what can only be described as puppy dog eyes. "Dean's being mean to me!" he whines, wiping the snot that's leaking from his nose and spreading the vile liquid onto John's jacket. Okay, eww…

Ignoring the disgustingness of the situation for the time being, he's certainly seen worse, John repeats, slightly incredulously, "Dean's being _mean_ to you?"

"Uh huh." Sam nods his head while sticking his lower lip out, hair flopping around. "He told me to go away."

"Did he now?" John asks, smirking slightly. He knows that Dean wouldn't be "mean" to his brother without a good reason, and that Sammy always dramatizes things to the extremes. "What did you do to him first?"

"I just asked him to play cars with me!" Sam says, imploring for his father to believe him. "I even told him he could be the black one, 'cause he thinks black cars are cool."

John shrugs, turning back to his book. "Well maybe he just doesn't want to play right now. Ask him in an hour or so, I'm sure his mind will change."

Sam looks like he's about to protest, but eventually concedes. "Okay, Daddy."

John watches his youngest son flounce off, grabbing his matchbox cars and playing with them while making little _vrooom _sounds with his mouth. John starts to read his book again, grossed out for a moment at a picture that depicts a shape shifter shedding its skin, but Sammy's content for about five seconds before he comes back to John, tears springing in his eyes once more. "What is it, Sam?" John asks, a little impatiently this time. He really needs to finish this book before he drops the boys off at Bobby's next week, since Singer was the one who was lending him the book.

"I don't think Dean likes me anymore!" Sam exclaims suddenly, eyes misting again.

John blinks. Where did that come from? "Why would you think that?"

"Because he hasn't been talking to me, and he's not playing cars, and he's telling me to go away, and he's being mean!"

John frowns a bit. Now that he thinks about it, there _has_ been something up with Dean recently. He's been more silent in the past week since John's returned, and it's starting to be a bit unnerving. He understood it at first, relating the sudden silence to him being shaken up over the Shtriga that had almost killed Sam. But since then, he's been unusually quiet and compliant, only uttering a "yes, sir" or "no, sir." Sam's worry about Dean being "mean" to him, however, makes John wonder if he's missed something. Sure, the boy is nine-years-old and is probably feeling guilty over leaving the motel room when he knew that he should have stayed in, and yes, John had been royally pissed at him for being so careless and the Shtriga getting away, but it was an event in the past now. John was determined to find the creature sometime in the future, but for now he had more pressing hunts to attend to. For instance, the possible shape shifter/skin walker that might be in Minnesota.

"You know what? Go watch some cartoons for a bit, Sammy," John suggests, hoping to get his youngest occupied. "I'm going to talk to your brother."

"Will you make him play with me again?" Sam begs, wide-eyed again.

"Sure thing," John says, though regrets the promise he's made. He can't guarantee Dean's cooperation since he's not sure what's still upsetting the boy.

Sam flashes him a toothy smile before jumping over to this motel's television that only comes in in monochrome, but it still pacifies the small boy for the time being. Slamming his book closed—and coughing when a torrent of dust flies out of the pages—John stands up and makes his way to the adjacent bedroom. There's two twin beds in there that Sam and Dean sleep on, and a double in here with the mini-kitchen and dining table.

He knows something is wrong the instant that he sees Dean laying on his bed, not moving, with his head buried under his pillow. He could pass for being asleep, but his foot is tapping to some indiscernible beat. John sees that Dean's headphones are on, and can hear the faint thrashing of drums and shredding of guitars that indicates too-loud metal music. While he knows thy can't be good for his son's ears, he can't say that he's any better; anytime one of John's favorite songs comes on in the car, he turns up the volume so loud that he's surprised the windows haven't shattered yet.

John shakes Dean's shoulder gently to catch his attention. Dean looks up at him, removing the bulky headphones for a moment and pausing his Walkman. He doesn't say anything, though his dull eyes say, "What, Dad?"

"Listen to me," John starts, already not liking his son's unresponsiveness. "Care to explain why I have Sammy out there practically bawling because you're being 'mean' to him?"

Dean has the dignity to look guilty, but only shrugs his shoulders listlessly. He goes to reach for the cassette player again, but John snatches it away.

"Save the Zeppelin for later, Dean," John orders, ignoring how Dean's face falls at the victimization of one of his favorite bands. "You and I need to have a talk."

"Yes, sir," Dean says shortly, looking down and appearing a bit sheepish.

"Glad to see we're on the same page now," John grunts. "Now what's up with this attitude? You've been acting withdrawn since the incident last week"—Dean flinches slightly at the mention of the Shtriga attack—"and I need to know why. You can't go closing yourself off and ignoring Sammy because you feel guilty."

Dean doesn't meet his father's gaze, choosing wisely to not retort in the way John knows he wants to.

John waits for a moment in case Dean chooses to respond, but he doesn't. "Well?" he pries, not in the mood nor having enough patience to withstand this attitude.

Dean shrugs. John's scowls; it's not an answer.

"Fine then. Don't answer." John isn't in the mood for this crap, and he can't help but have a sinking feeling in his stomach that tells him that something's going on, more than just Dean feeling guilty about the Shtriga. "But I won't have you acting like a brat to your little brother who deserves better than this!"

Dean mumbles something dejectedly under his breath.

It takes some diligent breaths to keep John's anger at bay for a few more moments. _Screaming won't make the situation any better,_ he has to remind himself to keep from blowing up at his nine-year-old son. "What was that?" he asks, making sure the hint of frustration enters his voice.

"Why are you still here?" Dean suddenly asks. His voice is nothing but a soft whisper, and the question seems out of place in John's interrogation. "You're not going on a hunt?"

"No, I'm hanging around for a few more days, then I'll drop you and Sam off at Bobby's," he answers, not noticing how Dean seems to deflate at that answer. "Now stop avoiding the question and answer me."

"Can I have my music back?" Dean murmurs, reaching out a hand for his taken Walkman.

John ejects the tape from the cassette player—Metallica's _...And Justice For All_, just released this fall—and tosses the whole contraption to the other bed on the other side of the room. He ignores Dean's outraged face at his dad's ill-treatment of what is probably his most prized possession. John can't care right now, blinded by fury at his son's clear obstinate attitude. "Dean Winchester, you quit this right now. I want to know _exactly_ what's going on, and you're going to tell me, or else..."

Dean huffs and doesn't say anything, instead choosing to stare down his father with the harshest look that a nine-year-old can muster. He turns over on his bed, burying himself under the his thin blanket.

"Dean!" John yells, ripping the blanket off of him. His son looks at him with wide eyes that look defiant. "Look me in the eye! Stop being childish and answer me!"

Dean flinches at the harsh tone, and his face contorts into something that John hardly recognizes on his son: hurt. "I...I don't really want to talk right now," he says in a whisper.

John's stomach churns at those words. The last time when Dean hadn't talked, it had lasted for over a year and was one of the worst periods in John's life. He'd figured that the selective mutism had been a thing of the past, a mere thing that post-traumatic Dean had done to cope with the idea that his mother was never coming back. John takes a deep breath, trying to quell his raging emotions. "Dean," he says, softer this time. His voice is low and dangerous, but at least he isn't screaming at the boy. "If you're still upset about the Shtriga, you need to put it behind you. Sam is fine. Am I mad at how careless you were?" John shrugs noncommittally. "Yes, I am. But I also understand how easy it is to make mistakes." Bile rises in his throat as he's bitterly reminded of November 2, 1983... He'd been sleeping off his beers after a particularly rotten day at work when he should have been protecting his wife. And she had died because of that. "Trust me, Dean, I've made mistakes. But I don't dwell on them days after." The lie rolls smoothly off of his tongue. Of _course_ he dwells on his mistakes. A day doesn't pass when he doesn't think about Mary, or the innocent lives he's failed to save on numerous hunts. Every single live lost because John wasn't fast enough or smart enough will haunt him for life. That blonde girl who was the unlucky pick to a poltergeist, the single mother with three kids who had the preferred blood type of a band of vampires. He will never forget each and every one of them, and he will forever hold the immense guilt that comes with letting them die, and _knowing_ that they died because of you.

Dean's eyes widen in shock, as if he can't understand how his _father_, the hero, could make mistakes. "But…," he starts, then shakes his head.

"But what?"

Dean looks his father in the eyes, and John sees what may be tears glistening in those green depths. "Why don't you trust me anymore?" he asks unexpectedly.

John does a double take, shocked. "Who says I don't trust you anymore?"

"You say you understand, but you're gonna leave us with Bobby, because you don't think I can take care of Sammy anymore." Dean sighs, rubbing his eyes clear of any potential tears. "Usually you would have gone off on another hunt by now, but you're waiting until you can take us to Bobby's."

"Is that what you think?" John asks. Dean nods sullenly, dipping his head. "Well it's not true. Son, you're the only person I know I can rely on."

Dean looks up, shocked. "But you said—"

"That I was taking you to Bobby's," John finishes for him. "Dean, the only reason I'm not leaving you boys on your own is because the hunt is close to Sioux Falls. I thought you'd enjoy going to his place."

"Yeah, I guess…"

"I don't trust you any less than I did before the Shtriga," John continues, reaching out to pat his son's shoulder. Dean unconsciously leans into the touch. "You froze, that's all. It happens to the best of us."

"Even you?" Dean asks gently.

John chuckles dryly. "Nah, not me. I'm too good." Once again, a lie. John mentally kicks himself.

"Right." Dean's shoulders square and a small smile appears on his face. "So, you're not mad at me?"

"Oh, I'm pissed." John nearly laughs at the look on Dean's face. "But I want you to know that I still trust you. Sam's perfectly fine."

Dean looks as if he's going to say something else, but he eventually nods. "Okay. Thanks, Dad."

John cheers inwardly, delighted at another battle won. "Great. Now that we're on the same page, I'd suggest you go pacify Sammy and tell him that you _don't_ hate him."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, and rises from his seated position. "I was being a jerk."

"Pretty much," John confirms. He pats his son on the back as he walks back out to the living room.

As Dean leaves, John's smile alters and he holds his head in his hands. He hates putting his son through this. He hates his son clamming up over the worry that his father is mad at him.

But he has to. This is how the life is, and John doesn't regret it, even when he sees his son being forced into sticky situations. He's getting closer to Mary's killer everyday, he can feel it.

Letting out a long sigh, John returns to his reading, mentally preparing himself for the hunt that lies ahead.

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	3. Renegade (Part 1)

**Part three: Flagstaff. I particularly like this one, so I hope you enjoy! It's split in two parts because it got kind of long, so this is part 1.**

**Thanks to AltoOwl, ebonywarrior85, gracewright, and DanniV for reviewing! You guys rock!**

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Dean hasn't spoken in eight days, but he hasn't noticed. He's been too worried about finding his little brother.

But, honestly, how far can a freakin' _thirteen-year-old_ get in eight days? Too far, in Dean's opinion, because he's gone over Durango, Colorado with a fine comb, checking every building, even going as far to break his silence briefly in order to question some authorities (in federal disguise, of course) if they've seen a floppy-haired, hazel-eyed, pissed-off preteen boy, and when they answered in the negative, he gave them one of Dad's spare phone numbers with orders to contact him if they caught wind of him. He checked the hospitals, clinics, veterinary offices (the kid's always loved dogs), everything. He's even investigated the morgues, which had turned up clear of his brother, thank whatever higher powers are out there.

The truth is cold and simple: Sam is gone, and there's no trace of him.

It all started on a werewolf hunt last weekend that left Dean with a radius broken in three places and a shattered elbow, all on his left arm. He can't remember the hunt that well, only vaguely recalling horrendous pain before he'd blissfully blacked out. He'd awoken in a sheer hospital room hours later, his dad telling him that he'd had corrective surgery to repair the open breaks and broken joint. He came home the next day a thick, plaster cast all the way up to his mid bicep that wasn't coming off for another two months and a bottle of high-grade, prescription hospital pain medicine—the good kind that always knocks you out for hours.

Sam had only scuffed up his knees when he'd tripped over a tree root, the minor abrasions being his only injuries. John had gotten sliced by the werewolves claws and now bore jagged scrapes down his right thigh, but the cuts were stitched up and he went on with business as if almost getting killed by a wolf-man was just another Tuesday. In the Winchester family, it sort of was. Dean, it seems, had received the blunt of the werewolf. He can't remember the actual hunt, but Dad says that the werewolf jumped him from behind, taking him completely by surprise before he passed out from the pain. John had jumped in at the last minute to save his son. And thank god he did, because the creature looked about ready to go for Dean's heart.

Dad left just over a week ago after a particularly messy fight with Sam. Dean can't quite recall what they had been arguing about, though he can only imagine that it was foolish and most likely not worth their time. But that's what had started happening since the day Sam turned twelve. They'd get into rows over cleaning the guns, running miles, or even why did Dad have to go so much instead of being a good father and staying with his kids? Sam, with the amazingly high intellect that resides in his brain, knows just how to rub Dad the wrong way, often bringing up failed hunts, how bad of a parent John is, and even Mom. That's when the real screaming starts. John Winchester, by no means a calm man, will turn beet red as that little vein in his forehead starts sticking out, throbbing madly. He starts screaming about Sam being an ungrateful, disobedient brat who should act more like the good soldier, Dean. He's never actually hit Sam, but Dean knows how much he really wants to throttle the kid. Whenever a fight starts, it feels like there's a grenade in the room. Each yell pulls the pin further and further out until the thing explodes and John either grabs Sam or storms out to get wasted. Dean hates that he gets caught in the crossfire all the time, and often tries in vain to put the pin back into the grenade in order to still the inevitable blast, but only ends up getting burned in the process.

The fight that night was a big one. Dean liked to think that it related more to an atomic bomb than a handheld grenade. It escalated until Dean finally came in, yelling that if they didn't shut up, he wouldn't make them any dinner. Sam huffed, retreating to his bed with that lame Jane Austen novel, _Sense and Sensibility _or something, and John went back to the newspaper on which he'd circled an obituary in red sharpie. Dean had sighed, before returning to the pasta he'd been heating up on the stove. They'd just moved to this town, and Dad was still hanging out while he gathered the information needed to proceed on the hunt he was planning. Dean could see how restless he was getting after three days of no hunt. Dean actually slightly wished that he would leave on his hunt, because at least that would mean no more arguments for the next week or so, which would save Dean a lot of headache.

He continuously spared glances at Sam that entire night. Though he looked to be reading, Dean could tell by the way that his eyes seemed to be fixed to one spot that he was distracted. And, judging by the clenching of his jaw, he was angry. When reading wasn't helping Sam's attitude, Dean knew that something was wrong.

Sam had finally sighed in frustration, bookmarking his page and placing the book down. He grabbed his bowl of pasta, frowned, and said, "Can we just order pizza or something?"

Dean was about to answer—"_Shut your trap, Sam, this is what you're getting, so live with it."_—but John stopped mid-chew and said gruffly, "Boy, one more word and you're dead meat. And I'm serious this time."

"But I didn't do anything wrong!" Sam argued, throwing his hands up in outrage. "It's just the sauce smells funny, and I'd much rather pizza."

"Your brother cooked that for you with one arm, for crying out loud, so be grateful! It's not all about you!"

"Why are you yelling over this? It's no big deal, I'm just voicing my opinion, or am I not allowed to do that? Gotta be a good soldier, huh? Can't even state my mind because we're under Colonel Winchester, yeah?"

"You do not speak to me that way! I am your father, and I demand respect!"

"Oh, so you're a father? Last I checked you were a revenge-driven madman who lets his son get mauled by a werewolf!"

"Don't you dare lay the blame on me! We get hurt during hunts all of the time, that's just what happens!"

"Yeah, but we don't need corrective surgery if a hunt goes fine! Just face it Dad, Dean got hurt because you were too slow!"

Dean's arm twinged with pain as the heated argument reminded him of the injury. He hated the going back and forth, and that he was now dragged into the argument. "Sammy, just drop it—"

"No, I'm not going to drop it, Dean!" Sam interjected. "Just because you aren't mad at him over what happened doesn't mean I can't be!"

"Samuel Winchester, I do not appreciate that tone of language with me!"

"Sam, shut up and eat your food," Dean said sternly, not liking having to order his brother around, but seeing no better way to handle him.

Sam looked to Dean, unbelievable shock on his face. "You're just going to let these things happen to you when it's clearly his fault?"

"It's not his fault, it's mine, so stop tossing around the blame and eat your dinner!" Dean yelled, completely done with this conversation and starting to lose his appetite. The stress was making his arm throb, and he felt nauseous. "Maybe we'll get pizza tomorrow."

Sam grabbed his spoon and fed himself a mouthful forcefully. "Fine," he muttered, swallowing. His eyes gleamed with fury, and Dean hated that he'd been part of the cause in putting that emotion there.

John stood up from his seat, having finished his supper, and said curtly, "I'm leaving."

Dean sputtered. "What?"

"You heard me." John swiftly made his way around the room, gathering his belongings and shrugging his jacket on. "There's a poltergeist causing some trouble down in Tucson that I need to take care of."

"Tucson, _Arizona_?" Dean asked warily. "Dad, that's like ten hours away."

"Should give Sam the space he needs, don't you think?" John remarked, sending a deadly glance towards his younger son, only returned by Sam rolling his eyes with and exaggerated huff. "I'll be back in a few weeks. There's cash by the stove if you need it."

And with that, he was gone.

Once he had slammed the door in a pure show of his dominance, Dean dumped his dinner into the trash bin and ran to the bathroom, puking into the toilet. The stress, the yelling, the pain…and now he had an annoyed Sam to deal with. Wasn't that just _wonderful_?

If Sam had heard him retching, he hadn't done anything about it. He too threw his dinner away, looking more angry than anything, before trying to get into his book again, though Dean could see that he was less than into it. Sighing, angry at their life, he turned on the television and watched it without interest until he knew that Sam had fallen asleep. Looking at his brother's peaceful face, Dean pulled a blanket over his shoulders and took the well-worn book out of his lax hands, placing it gently on the bedside table. Popping two pain pills into his mouth, Dean laid on the other bed, preparing himself for a long day ahead of him tomorrow.

When he woke up, Sam was still in a bad mood, he was ashamed to see. He ate his breakfast, got ready for school, and made his own lunch, all without uttering a single word and sending dirty glances towards Dean the whole morning. Dean tried to ignore it, but inside he was hurt that Sam was taking his anger out on _him_ when it was _Dad_ who had done the wrong.

They walked to school in tense silence. Dean wanted to strike up conversation, but didn't know what to say. _"Sam, I'm sorry you're grumpy, but maybe you shouldn't argue with Dad so much." _Yeah, like _that_ conversation would go over well. Though Dean didn't like to leave Sammy stewing in his angsty, teenage emotions, it was unavoidable right now when he was this far beside himself with anger.

Dean barely made it through the day. His arm ached like something awful, and any movements drove spikes of white-hot agony through his body. He was allowed to sit out during gym, but by the end of the day he was ready to curl up into bed and cry. He wanted some more drugs, or at least a dark room to sleep in, because his arm was killing him to the point that he imagined that sawing it off would hurt _much _less.

Then, because apparently Dean's life needed more hardship, he got in a fight. Not the smartest thing to do with his arm in a huge cast and sling, but they were picking on Sam, and no one picks on Sam without getting Dean's attention.

There were three of them, all sophomores, yet believing that they owned the school. They were big, Dean had to admit that, but it looked like brawns were the only things they had going for them. They were just as tall as they were wide, which didn't put them as much of a threat in Dean's eyes, but they were intimidating to Sam, who still stood a couple heads shorter than Dean. So when Dean saw them forming a ginormous meat-wall around his baby brother, he knew that he had to intervene. He recognized the defensive tone in his brother's voice, and recognized that something was wrong.

"Hey, you lot!" he yelled, shoving his way past their barrier. All three boys looked up to him, eyes wide and sneers long. "Take a hike!"

The biggest and fattest of them all, presumably the ringleader, laughed horribly in Dean's face (his breath bore much resemblance to the smell of a cat's butt) before turning back to Sam. "Aww, so little Sammy needs his big brother to defend him, does he?" he remarked in a condescending tone that made Dean's good fist clench.

"No!" Sam squeaked out, shooting an irritated glance towards Dean. "Dean, stay out of it."

Dean scoffed. "Like hell I am." He fixed his gaze towards the band of bullies. "You wanna pick on someone, make sure he doesn't have an older brother who happens to be a senior."

"You're both freaks, ya know that?" The main bully snorted in what might have been a laugh. "And how're you gonna defend little Sammy here with a busted arm, Winchester?"

Dean's face turned dangerous. "Oh, that's it," he muttered darkly. He reached out and shoved the teenager, sending him stumbling backwards. He was met with a face of pure shock, as if the kid couldn't believe that Dean had actually pushed him.

"You little—," he began, but never got to finished with whatever expletive would complete his statement as Dean socked him in the jaw. He fell to the ground.

With an air of triumph at the bully's already bruising face, Dean chuckled. He was just about to grab Sammy and rush them back to their motel room when the other two bullies advanced on him both shoved him with their combined brute forces, sending Dean flat on his face.

Somehow, he'd managed to turn mid-air to avoid landing in his bad arm, but the impact still jarred the injury. He gasped and screwed his eyes shut. That _hurt_.

One of the bullies was saying something, but Dean couldn't quite make it out past the blood rushing through his ears. Maybe picking a fight while injured wasn't his best move…

He can't quite remember what happened next, but soon he was walking home with Sam, nearly tripping over his own feet and only staying upright by Sam almost dragging him. The throbbing was intensifying now, and he was vaguely certain that he was going to puke again. Finally, after what seemed like hours, they got back to the crappy motel and Dean was resting on his bed, arm cradled delicately to his chest.

"Dean?" Sam asked.

Dean squinted at his brother. "What?" he croaked.

Sam held a few white pills in front of his face. "Here."

Dean nodded and dry-swallowed them. He wasn't counting how many pills were shoved down his throat, but was delighted at the relief they brought minutes later.

"Uh, thanks for that, Dean."

Dean smirked cockily. "No problem, squirt."

Sam was silent for a moment, biting his lip, but then said, "Dean, you really shouldn't have done that, though. It was stupid, even for you."

"'M not just gonna let some jerks throttle you, Sammy."

"Yeah, but you're already hurt, and I don't want you to get beat up for me."

Dean inwardly sighed at his brother's naiveté. "That's my job, Sam. And I didn't get beat up. If I'd have been in full health, all three of them wouldn't be able to see straight for months."

"But…." Sam seemed at a loss for words for a moment, a strange sight for the petulant teen. "You don't always have to intervene. I could have handled it."

"I'd like to hear you say that when I'm icing a brand new shiner." There was no immediate response from his sulking little brother, so Dean asked, "What'd they get on you about anyway?"

Sam shrugged. "It was nothing, really."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. Sure looked like nothing. I'm positive those guys were just coming to ask you about that book you're reading, maybe suggest meeting to discuss it over a spot of tea?"

"Shuddup."

"Or maybe they were just asking you what hair products you use. They could have used a few vanity tips."

"Dean, just drop it. Please."

Dean shrugged his shoulders indifferently, but inwardly he was concerned about his brother begging him to quit his interrogation. Normally he would press on and try to get the facts out, because Sammy would spill eventually, but something in Sam's tone seemed tight, even stressed. Letting out a slow breath, Dean forgot about his brother's struggles for a moment to let himself drift off. The sweet pulls of a pain-free unconsciousness that high doses of pain medication brought him finally allowed Dean to indulge in a brief nap.

He didn't know how long he'd slept, but when he awoke it was dark. Like, _completely_ dark. The lights were all off, the sun was down, there were no lights at all. Which was strange, considering that it was nine pm and Sammy never goes to bed this early, instead choosing to stay up and read or sometimes join Dean on the couch for late-night talk shows. He glanced to the other bed, surprised to see a lump under the blankets. Huh, so all the excitement had worn the kid out. Dean was glad, meant less moody Sam for him today.

He was still a bit groggy from the pills, but at least his pain had dulled. He grabbed a spare garbage bag to wrap his arm in so that he could hop in the shower. Just the idea of warm water running down him and soothing his tense muscles made him relax even before he was under the thick spray. Looking at Sam quickly and deciding that the kid was asleep enough to not hear the low shower, Dean stepped into the tiny bathroom.

When he got back out, Sam hadn't moved at all. Quirking a smile at the kid, Dean got himself changed and settled himself into bed. He felt years better already. Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, he let himself relax, drifting off.

That is, until he noticed that something was wrong.

He was immediately wide awake again, listening. He couldn't hear anything in the room. The lack of rustling or TV playing were explainable, but one vital sound was missing: the blissful, reassuring sound of Sam's breathing.

In a maddened frenzy, Dean leaped out of bed and towards his brother. Even with one arm, he was prepared to perform CPR if he had to. His baby brother wasn't freaking _breathing_.

He threw the blanket off of Sam to find…pillows?

Oh, crap.

Sam wasn't even there! Dean ran a hand over his face in panic. Where was he? How did something get in to kidnap him while Dean was sleeping? Had he been that drugged up to not notice a freaking _demon_ (or some other awful creature) getting in and stealing his baby brother?

Dean turned the lights on as fast as he could, looking around for anything that seemed disturbed. The salt lines were all perfectly in place, so no spirits or demons. Then what? Dean found himself begin to hyperventilate. Something _got _Sam on _Dean's _watch. He _had_ to find him.

Dean looked around for a clue, _anything_!

He found three things: zip, zero, and zilch.

Absolutely nothing looked in the wrong. Salt lines were intact, guns were still in their respective places, the extra hunting supplies were still in the duffel bag by Dean's headboard. All of Dean's personal belongings were still in place, all of Sam's personal belongings were…missing?

So a creature broke into their motel room while Dean was knocked out, kidnapped Sam, and took Sam's belongings? What, was the monster nostalgic? Liked to rummage through little boys' things before tearing them limb by limb or sucking their blood or draining their marrow or whatever this monster was going to do to Sam?

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the demonic images from his mind. _No_. Sam would not be maimed, bled-dry, or hurt in any way. Dean would save his brother like he had from the bullies only hours earlier. Only this was like a thousand-year-old, overgrown, supernatural bully. Same thing when you get deep into it, really.

Dean was about to head out and scout for signs of the supernatural when something else caught his eye. Something that sent his heart plummeting and bile rising in his throat.

The money that Dad had left was gone. To keep it secure, Dean had placed the wad of cash, about forty dollars total, hidden under some old, past-due apartment bills and uncompleted calculus homework in the trash bin. Only Sam and Dean knew where it was; certainly some run-of-the-mill monster wouldn't know about their stash? And why would a monster want cash, anyway?

Dean hoped that his growing speculation was wrong. He hoped that a monster had indeed taken his little brother, because the alternative was unthinkable.

Sammy had run away.

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**Didn't think you'd be getting a cliffhanger, did you? I hope you liked it, and part 2 will be arriving soon!**


	4. Renegade (Part 2)

**And the hunt begins! Thanks to AltoOwl, Sue333, DanniV, ebonywarrior85, and Zana Zira for your awesome reviews!**

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All thoughts of sleep forgotten, Dean had run out of the motel room, screaming his brother's name hysterically until he was hoarse. He went to all the usual places in this area—the diner, corner store, mini-mart, and school—but found himself without success. He went everywhere he could think of, but it was pointless. Sam obviously wasn't in the area anymore.

That was eight days ago, and Sam is still missing. Dean doesn't know what he's going to do, because Sam hasn't turned up in over a week and he's worried sick. He hasn't slept for more than a couple hours, has barely eaten, and hasn't spoken a word unless it applies to him searching for information on Sam. He's found nothing, and his mind can't help but formulate all of the awful things that might have already happened to Sam, all of the things that could be happening to Sam at this very moment. Every morning when Dean wakes up reminded of his brother's absence, he kicks himself because he hasn't found Sam yet. He scorns himself because he'd been so stupid as to let him sneak away. He can't look at his reflection, or else he'll smash the mirror because he hates what he'll see: a failure.

He's mapped out every place that he's been to, and soon enough, he's been to every shop and small business in the area. No one has heard tell of his little brother, much to Dean's dismay. On day nine, he's just about to bail this stupid town and start broadening his horizons—though he's pessimistic about actually finding something—when there's a rustling at the door. Dean freezes, recognizing the sound as someone putting in the key to open the door.

His heart swells with hope for a moment. Could it be Sam returning? Maybe he'd changed his mind about booking and has decided to come back? But then the door opens, and Dean is met with the strong, determined gaze of John Winchester.

Dean pales, feeling sick. Of all the times that Dad could be home early…

John stumbles into the room, not looking necessarily hurt, just beat from a hard hunt. Dean gulps, wondering when John will notice his youngest's absence. _If_ he notices his son's absence. Part of Dean wishes that John will merely put aside the fact that Sam is nowhere to be seen, but his hopes are shot down when John speaks.

"Where's your brother?"

Dean licks his lips, wetting his mouth from days of unuse. "Dad, I—"

John narrows his gaze, a forbidding suspicion growing on his face. "Dean, where is Sam?" he interrupts, tone lowering.

Dean looks down, ashamed. "I swear, I've been looking all week—"

Suddenly, John is at him, thick, calloused hands grabbing his throat and pinning him against the wall. Dean nearly cries out at the abrupt attack, feeling his dad crushing his neck. John leans into his son's body, keeping him firm on the drywall. Dean winces as his dad unknowingly puts pressure on his busted arm, feeling the intense throbbing start up again.

"Dean Winchester, what do you mean you've been _looking_?" John growls, and in this moment Dean fears that John will actually slug him. He sure wants to. Without giving Dean a chance to answer, John continues, "You mean he's been missing? You _lost_ him?"

Dean nods slowly, not wanting to speak against the hand crushing his windpipe.

"How long?" John growls. Dean doesn't answer right away and swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. John shakes him furiously. "_How long_?!"

"Nine days," Dean croaks, averting his eyes from John Winchester's fury. He doesn't want to see the unadulterated hate in his father's eyes.

"_What_?" John screams, knocking Dean's head against the wall.

He cringes, feeling a spike of pain drive up his arm. "Dad, arm…"

"I don't _care _about your arm! I care about your brother, who's hell knows where right now because you were careless and lost him! What if a demon's got him, huh? Or a vamp? What are you gonna do then, Dean?" John's eyes are shadowed, darkened by the hard hunt behind him and the unrelenting rage towards his son. "When we find him—because we _are_ going to find him, dead or alive—what are you gonna do when you see his cold, lifeless body? Or that he's been tortured for over a week because of your incompetence?"

Dean takes a deep breath in attempt to dispel the pain. It doesn't help. All of his father's words cut deep, and they bring up nasty images in his mind. He knows the odds of Sammy being…_dead_ by now, but the only way he's stayed upright the past few days is by keeping the hope that Sam is, in fact, alive. For once, the Winchesters actually have luck. Sam is out on his own, escaping the hunting life in peace. No monsters have got him, and he's somehow keeping his own out there. _Sam is fine_.

Or maybe that's just the hysteria talking.

"Do you at least know what took him? Or could you not even manage to to that?"

Dean tries to dispel the shrew comment and shakes his head as much as he can. "No, wasn't a monster."

"What do you mean it wasn't a monster?"

"Ran away," Dean says in a small whisper, preparing himself for Dad exploding.

That only makes John's already-red face deepen in shade. "_Ran away_? Why in the world would he do that?"

Dean wants to scoff at his father. _"Why'd he run away? I don't know, maybe because he hates you? You get on him about everything, so he took his opportunity!" _But Dean can't say any of that to his father's face. Isn't sure he can even mutter more than a few words at a time in this state. "Don't know, Dad."

"Well you'd better _figure it out_ and _find your brother_!" Dean clenches his jaw, preparing himself for the blow that he knows might come. However, John doesn't slap him. For good measure, though, Dad makes sure to give Dean's throat one final squeeze, shoving him so hard that Dean thought he would break the wall down. Once released, he clutches his neck and presses his arm to his stomach in agony. He feels nausea bubbling up in his stomach, but forces himself to swallow down the vomit. He can't look weaker than he already does in front of his father.

"Get your stuff—we're leaving."

Dean looks up, sending his father a confused look.

John huffs. "You've obviously been all over this town. It's time to broaden our horizons."

Dean nods, grabbing his already packed duffel and following his father out to the car. He jumps into shotgun of the Impala and they're off. A low, droning, classic rock song fills the silence as they drive, but the lack of conversation still makes Dean want to sink into his seat. Anything to avoid those fleeting, judgmental glances that John keeps sending him. On a typical day, music takes the edge off when school's been particularly stressful or when they've just returned from a hunt. Dean turns to music for solace so that it can unwind his nerves and keep him sane. However, today is not a typical day. The music flows through one ear and out the other; he doesn't even take the time to recognize what song is playing.

Dean ends up resting his head on the passenger window, feeling his eyes droop from the exhaustion of not having slept in nine days. He doesn't know how long they'll be driving, so he might as well grab some much-needed rest. He doesn't think he can last much longer under his father's heated gaze anyway.

He's woken by his dad's incessant shaking. It's dark out, and they're parked in front of an all-night diner. John steps out of the car without a word. Dean ponders for a moment if he should follow him, but his stomach finally wins the battle and he's forced to go inside. John is already talking to a plump and maternal waitress when Dean joins him in the booth.

"…and he'll have a bacon cheeseburger with fries," John finishes, sending a flirtatious wink in the waitress's direction. "Oh, and coffee for both of us. Black."

"Comin' right up," she drawls, turning on her heels to retell their orders.

When they get their food, Dean only plays with it. His appetite has waned in the past five minutes, dulled mainly by the death glares sent to him by his father. He sips his coffee gratefully, hoping the caffeine will liven him up and give him the kick he needs in hours to come.

"Eat your food, Dean," John says around a mouthful of country-fried steak.

Dean shoves a reluctant bite down his throat, not really relishing in the grease or bacon like he normally would, before returning to his drink.

John grunts, obviously not satisfied, but not feeling the need to press the issue. "Well, I think I've found a lead on Sam while you were asleep." Dean's head snaps up at that, drawn to full attention. _A lead_? "Hacked into police radios in the area, turns out there's been quite the hitching issue." John scratches his beard, choosing his next words carefully. "One hitcher? A possibly twelve-year-old boy with long, brown hair and carrying a duffel bag full of supplies. Looked like he was running away."

Dean shakes his head. "No, he'd never hitch…"

"Used to think he'd never run away," John counters. "Anyway, the truck driver he supposedly thumbed down reported him said the kid was headed 'far away from here.' The guy dropped him in northern Arizona since he was headed there on business already. Specifically Moenkopi, Arizona."

Dean looks down at his burger in thought. Sam _knows_ the dangers of hitching, Dad's drilled it into their heads before. By the looks of it, he hadn't been in danger or anything, but still, what if something had happened?

"Dean!" John snaps. "Pay attention and stop freaking out. We're gonna head down to Moenkopi and see what we can gather from there, okay?"

Dean nods, pushing his plate away. By the looks of it, they're going to find Sam soon. He should feel delighted, but instead he's incredibly nervous. Sam ran away from _him_, so why would he want to return? Well, not like Dad will really give him the option of staying, but Sam is stubborn. If he doesn't want to go back home with Dean and John, he'll be sure to convey his feelings to them by acting extremely pissy for the next month or so. All of these worries, and Sam might not even be in Moenkpoi. Where will they go from there? Search for underage hitchhikers again?

They cage up at some motel in the area, though Dean can't sleep. With the combined aftereffects of his coffee, nap, and growing enthusiasm about finally tracking down Sam, Dean finds himself restless. His arm is throbbing, his throat is aching, but he can't give himself the rest his body so desperately craves. Looking to the other bed in the darkness, he realizes that John isn't sleeping either. His breaths aren't at all even, coming out in short, strained gasps. Dean knows that he's worried Sam as well, but his father is also combating the extreme anger that came when he learned that his youngest had booked on Dean's watch. Dean swallows down the shame. He's a failure, he knows, but this is huge. His dad will never forgive him.

The next day, they drive the rest of the way to Moenkopi, which turns out to just be a couple of hours. Once there, John takes the Impala to scout out the small town, and Dean starts going around to the police station, hospital, and morgue. Better safe than sorry. Luckily, his searches all turn up in vain. Not that he doesn't want to find his brother, he just doesn't want to find him hurt or dead.

_He could still be hurt somewhere else_, his subconscious helpfully reminds him.

_Shut up_, Dean mentally retorts.

He and John reunite at the end of the day, day ten, with no new information on where Sam is. John orders Dean to grab something to eat and then go to bed at a reasonable time before going out to resume his search. Dean reluctantly agrees along the lines that he hasn't slept well or eaten much since Sam left and it's starting to take a toll on him. When he finds Sam, he'll need all his energy so that he can give the kid the beating of his life for running away and nearly driving Dean to an early grave, either by Dad murdering him or the stress about finding Sam eventually driving him to the ground.

When Dean wakes up the next morning, Dad is hunched over on the couch, head in hands. That isn't a good sign. Dean sits down next to his father, not saying a word, yet offering his silent support. Honestly, he's surprised by how badly this is tearing his dad up. The two fight so often that that John's compassion is often masked under all of that gruff hatred. But underneath his unwavering tough-guy appearance, Dean can tell that he really does care for his son, however twisted that care may be.

Day eleven goes on like the past ten days did: fruitless. Nothing turned up. Sam was nowhere to be seen in Moenkopi, Arizona. Dean begins to wonder if John was right taking that lead off of the police radio. After all, it could always be another small, floppy-haired kid, right?

Day twelve passes. Nothing. Dean's begun to think that he'll never see his baby brother ever again.

Then, like a gift descending from the heavens, day thirteen brings solid, hardcore proof that Sam had been in Moenkopi. John had gotten in touch with the bus company that served the greater Northern Arizona area. They had surveillance on each of their company buses, and a child that fit John's description was seen riding a transport to Flagstaff, Arizona nearly twelve days ago. He got off at the desired location and never got on another bus—at least, not one of the same company.

They high-tail it to Flagstaff, and days thirteen and fourteen are spent searching the town. They scour every inch of it, driving down the city roads and around the outskirts. There's so many places for a thirteen-year-old to hide that it's almost dizzying. If Sam is still here, it will take them forever to find him.

It's evening on day fourteen, and John and Dean are just about ready to call it a day. Both have been pushing themselves to their limits, and both are feeling the pressure from it. On the way back to their motel, they pass a small, innocuous cafe. Gazing blearily out the window, tired out of his mind, Dean sees Sam.

Wait…_Sam_?

"Dad, stop the car!" Dean yells, voice cracking over having not used it in a while, but he can't care. Dad slams the breaks, and in an instant both men are in the tiny restaurant.

There, lo and behold, is Sam.

He looks the same. Perfectly fine, in Dean's opinion, if not a bit grimy and most likely smelly. He's forking over a few crumpled bills at the register in exchange for a bag of greasy food. Once Dean is positive that it's him and not some random, homeless kid, he runs over and swoops him up in his one good arm. He trembles with emotion and exhaustion as he squeezes his long-lost brother as tightly as he can. "Sam…," he whispers.

His brother's long, lanky arms are wrapped around Dean's neck. In this moment, Dean can't care if his brother wants to go home or not. He doesn't care if Sam hates him and Dad. All he can care about is that his brother is back.

And the only thoughts running through his mind are the multitude of ways in which he is going to kill the boy.

"SAMUEL WINCHESTER!"

But not before Dad does.

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**And that's the end of the Flagstaff chapters. Stay tuned, the next one will be about when Sam is away at Stanford and Dean isn't talking!**


	5. Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)

**Here's chapter five! Takes place while Sam is at Stanford, and is a bit different from the previous chapters… It was totally un-beta'd, so it's probably strewn with errors. Oops. :/**

**Thanks AltoOwl, South of Eden, Zana Zira, ebonywarrior85, and qteallex for your awesome reviews! Love you guys!**

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The longer Sam's at Stanford, the more he's convinced that the college life is truly for him. He has friends, an apartment of his own, awesome classes (in which he is getting semi-awesome grades), a job at a local coffee joint, and recently, this really pretty blonde girl introduced to him by his friend Brady, Jessica Moore, has started talking to him. The apple-pie life that he's always craved is everything he's ever wanted, and more. However, if he says that he never thinks about John or Dean, he's lying.

He doesn't sleep well. He eats less than he probably should, though that might be solely because he's living off of minimum wage and meager tips. He can't help be haunted by the things that go bump in the night, and that's why there's salt lining his windows and doors and a gun underneath his pillow. He has nightmares of either Dean or Dad finally biting the dust at the hands of a vamp or a spirit. God, most sleepless nights are spent over him frantically worrying over if his only remaining family members have gotten themselves killed yet.

And yet, he wonders idly, if he's so concerned about them, then why hasn't he called them yet?

Two months he's been at school, and two months since he's talked to his family. He has _no_ desire to talk to Dad at all, not after he kicked him out like that, but Dean is a different story. Dean's his brother who practically raised him, who attended to his every need as a kid and put up with him when he was in a bad mood—well, _still_ puts up with him. He deserves at least a phone call, but for some reason Sam can't bring himself to do it. It just feels…_weird_ to contact your family who practically disowned you and told you if you left to never come back.

It's a rainy Monday. As if that doesn't already put Sam in a gloomy mood, he also flunked a test in his "Intro to Economics" class, which totally sucks. He had to work three hours overtime because the guy who took over his shift at nine pm was "running late." Now it's nearly one in the morning, and Sam still isn't asleep. He knows that he has to get some rest since he has a class at eight tomorrow, but the sleep just refuses to come. He's tired, cranky, and wet from having to walk from home to work then home again in the thick, pelting rain. The usual crappiness that Mondays normally bring has totally been upped a few notches today, and Sam is wholly convinced that the world has it out for him. At least he doesn't have any homework to do. _Way to look on the bright side, Sam_.

It's two thirty when Sam finds himself tossing his cell phone back and forth in his hands. He's actually contemplating calling Dean, though he knows it will be indecent hours wherever they are in the country. It's been an all-out stressful and crap-tastic day, and Sam really wants to hear his big brother's voice. Dean will remind him of how much he'd wanted this and how he'll get through it all. Dean will scoff at all the preppy kids who are going to Stanford with Sam. Sam will tell him all about Jessica and how beautiful she is and Dean will ask if she has a hot bod and just how far Sam's gotten with her yet. Sam might even dig into some of his pre-law courses, though he doubts Dean will care anything about those. He'll tell him about the bombed test, and Dean will reassure him by saying that the TA who graded the papers must have been high on something, because there's no doubt in his mind that Sam's the smartest geek in this whole school of geeks. Just having a mental conversation with his brother eases Sam's nerves, so he hurriedly presses the speed dial number for Dean's primary cell.

He's nervous that no one will pick up, but on the final ring there's a beep and a gruff, "Hello?"

Sam freezes, all previous worries filling him again and a fierce anger running through his veins. That's not Dean, but John. If it were possible to slap people through a phone call, Sam would have before hanging up on his father. He knows that any conversation will most likely end in a screaming match, and he doesn't really want to go there this early in the morning. But instead of hitting the red "hang up" button like he really wants to, Sam answers, "Why are you answering Dean's phone?"

"Your brother's asleep," John answers, his voice a detained whisper. "It's three in the morning here, what are you doing calling?"

"I wanted to talk to Dean," Sam replies flatly. "Wake him up or something. I don't want to talk to you." He makes sure to spit out the bitter words as to convey his message.

"No way," John says, voice deep and emotionless. Sam hopes that his comment had cut deep, but he senses no hurt in the older man's voice. "He's been running himself on dry. Needs his sleep."

Sam sighs, frustrated. There goes his relaxing conversation with his brother to get his mind off of school. "Why are you awake?" he asks, knowing that Dad has severe bouts of insomnia on the best of nights, but would have normally passed out by this time. The fact that he's awake sends minor alarm bells off in Sam's head. By the sound of him, he's probably slumped over in exhaustion, running his hand through his beard, and eyes flicking over to the nearest exits in caution. Sam gets the irrational notion that they are in danger, since Dad's tone seems worried, and maybe slightly mad.

"Just keeping watch," is John's smooth reply. It doesn't give away anything about their current situation, which makes Sam frustrated. "I could ask you the same question."

"None of your business," Sam answers, voice harsh. He doesn't need to delve into his personal life with Dad. The man had kicked him out, surely he doesn't want to hear all about Sam's petty issues. Nothing matters when compared to the grand scheme of hunting in John Winchester's book. "Now put Dean on the phone, or I'm hanging up."

"I'm not waking him up." Sam can almost see John's jaw clench and hears him try to keep his tone soft even though he wants to yell. "Goodbye, Sam."

Sam presses the "end call" button without responding. He lays down on his threadbare couch and weighs the cell phone in his hands. Well, _that_ went pleasantly. Nothing like a nice little chat with John Winchester to put you in the mood of your life. Why couldn't he just concede with his son's wishes and put the older brother on the phone? It would have saved John from having to talk with Sam, and that would be heaven for the older man.

If Dean is hurt, John would have told him, right? Sam sighs wearily. Probably not. He isn't John's son anymore, not in his father's eyes. If Dean is seriously maimed, John's kept it a secret from his son. Good thing, probably, because Sam would have ended up screaming at him for letting Dean get hurt. He hopes that isn't the case, and that Dean's sleeping and John's insomnia are just that: sleeping and insomnia.

Rubbing his eyes and deciding that he's too riled up to even think about going to bed, he pushes another button on his phone, a number he hasn't called in a while. He waits for less than a moment before the call is picked up with a slightly angry voice saying, "Whoever you are, you think it's mighty wise to be callin' me at this point in the night, don't you? Well I swear, I ain't amused!"

"Bobby?" Sam answers, hoping that his surrogate uncle won't be mad once he realized who it is. "It's Sam."

There's a pause on the other line. "What's up, boy?" came Bobby's voice, much softer and more controlled than before.

"Are Dad and Dean doing all right?" Sam asks swiftly, biting his lip in anticipation of Bobby's answer.

"Yeah, I think so." Sam can practically see Bobby shrug. "Last I heard, John was taking the boy to check out some poltergeist down in West Texas."

"So they aren't…hurt or anything?" Sam continues.

No matter what the grizzled hunter thinks, Sam can hear the hesitation in his voice when he says, "Hurt, no, though John recently called in a frenzy. Dean had apparently gotten a headache, a bad one at that."

Sam's stomach drops. "He hasn't had a migraine in years," he thinks out loud, mind going back to the last time it had happened. Dad had been late, and Dean was nearly working himself to death to provide for the both of them. Sam wished he could help, but he was in eleventh-grade and preparing for end-of-course exams. He'd come home from school to the most-recent crappy motel go find Dean huddled up under a blanket with the windows drawn tight, shaking. Dean had had major headaches like this before, so Sam had gratefully known what to do. Still, it wasn't fun to see your brother puking because any glimmers of light or noises louder than absolute silence made him sick to his stomach. He got migraines during times of great stress, he'd figured out, and the only remedy was a dark room for a few days and an Excedrin or two.

"Must've escalated quickly, 'cause John called me panicked," Bobby continues. "Though I don't blame him for not realizing it sooner, with Dean not talkin' and all."

"Dean's…." Sam takes a deep breath, unsure if what he just heard is really what was said. "He's not talking?"

He can hear the frown in Bobby's voice. "Sam, when's the last time you talked to yer family?"

"Just called tonight, but Dad answered." Sam swallows past the lump forming in his throat. "Haven't talked to them since I moved out here."

"Boy, yer brother's been falling apart without you!" Bobby declares in a harsh whisper. "John said he's barely spoken since you left!"

The migraines Sam could remember. He knew how to treat them, how to take care of his brother when they came on. He knew what caused them and what eased that. But the mutism…. Sam can only remember once in his life where Dean's completely shut up, and that was when Dean was eleven and had to get his tonsils removed. He hadn't spoken for nearly a week after that, and Sam remembers at the age of seven it being unnerving for his brave older brother to be so verbally unresponsive to the world. He can't imagine how scary it might be now that his brother is twenty-two. Sam doesn't know how to treat that, doesn't know the causes, doesn't know how to take care of his brother.

"I'm sorry, Bobby," he sincerely says, "but Dad kicked me out. He doesn't want to hear from me. Why would he?"

"I know yer daddy's stubborn, but he still loves you." Sam snorts and rolls his eyes. Bobby really doesn't know, does he? Bobby must sense the younger man's disbelief, because he continues, "Really. I bet ya he was happy to hear yer voice, no matter how angry he is."

Sam didn't say anything in response. He know that deep, deep, deep down John cares for him, but it's what's on the surface that always comes out, and what's on the surface is anything but love for his sons.

"Try callin' him again tomorrow," Bobby suggests after Sam's prolonged silence. "Headache started a few days ago, he should be improving by now."

Sam sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Thanks, Bobby," he says sincerely. "I will."

He hangs up, finding himself no less stressed out than he had been before. He's not at all prepared for his long day tomorrow, nor the inevitable long work hours. He doesn't know when he'll even have time to call his brother.

After deep, brooding thoughts about his campus life and his messed up family, Sam finally retires to bed at 3 am.

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The following morning when Dean actually eats half of a slice of toast, John counts his lucky stars. Finally, there's some improvement. Dean's been holed up here for three days as the headache raged on, and the only thing John could do was sit back and wait for it to wear itself out. Normally it's Sam who helps his brother through these episodes, but Sam isn't here. John has spent the past few days making sure Dean drinks enough water and keeping the blinds shut. Dean's been on a nonstop cycle of vomiting and sleeping, so when he actually hauls himself out of bed this morning to grab a bite to eat, John can't help but be relieved. If it went on any longer, John would have to drag his son to the hospital in seek of better treatment. But now that fear is eradicated, as Dean is up and kicking (though still far too pale and his movements sluggish).

He watches Dean eat in silent scrutiny. "How are you feeling?" he finally asks.

Dean shrugs, still doing that squinty-eye thing. John waits unrealistically for an answer but, unsurprisingly, he doesn't receive one.

John sighs. "I don't understand what that means. Now try again," he says, a little fiercely this time.

But who can blame him? John can count on one hand how many words Dean has spoken to him since Sam's left. He feels like Dean is an infant again, when he and Mary were trying to get their son to speak his first word. Dean had been stubborn, finally saying "Momma" when he was twenty-months-old. John remembers Mary holding the fact that Dean had said her name first over his head for months. They both found joy in Dean saying more and more words, holding little competitions to see who could get him to say more words to say. Little Dean had been open to suggestions, so when John convinced him to call Mary "Babe," he was totally for it. Mary had been appalled, but her face also was lit up with that angelic smile of hers. Back then, they had spent every moment pushing Dean to talk. He gained the ability to speak complete sentences around the age of three, then it just exploded from there. Dean never knew how to shut up after that crucial moment in his life. Now, though his son is twenty-two, it seems as if he's learning to talk again. He doesn't speak unless John forces it, and even then they're short-clipped answers. John hates his son's silence, and he hates Sam for causing it.

"A little better, sir," Dean murmurs, voice all crackly. His gaze is fixed down on his toast, which he's set down in distaste after a few bites.

"Good," John says. He points towards the discarded slice of bread. "Gonna eat that?"

Dean shakes his head solemnly. John frowns. Maybe he isn't doing as well as John had hoped.

He's about to say something else—"Eat your bread. You haven't eaten anything for days, Dean."—but then he hears the familiar guitar riffs that indicate Dean's phone ringing. He sighs. It's probably Sam calling again, hoping to get a hold of his brother.

Dean raises an eyebrow, looking puzzled. He grabs his cell from where it sits on the table beside him and answers softly, "Hello?"

John waits expectantly. Suddenly his son's face lights up in a way that it hasn't in two months. "Sam?" Dean asks, voice conveying all of the pent up emotion he's been hiding. Dean breathlessly chuckles, amazed that his brother is calling him. The sound nearly breaks John's heart.

"No, I'm not busy." Dean stands up, swaying slightly, but getting his bearings. He starts to walk out of the motel, a smile growing on his face as he chats up a storm with his younger brother. His voice is rough and tired, but he's talking. John eavesdrops as Dean listens carefully before butting in, offering advice or talking about what's going on with him. Though he's not really paying close attention to what's being spoken about because he's hung up on the fact that his son is _speaking_.

When Dean finally returns to the table, he wears a new air of self-confidence. He finishes his toast, the whole time smirking as if he'd just won the lottery. Part of John is grateful that Dean has a renewed spirit and that he'll be likely to talk again, but the other part of him hates Sam for causing this.

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**Up next: After John's death! Hope you enjoyed it, and please leave a review!**


	6. Angry Again

**This one's a little shorter than usual, but I like it. I hope you like it as well.**

**Thanks AltoOwl, ebonywarrior85, A Path That's Clear, and margo (twice!) for reviewing! You have no idea how awesome you guys are!**

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_**"**You were right."_

_**"**About what?"_

_"About me and Dad. I'm sorry that the last time I was with him I tried to pick a fight. I'm sorry that I spent most of my life angry at him. I mean, for all I know he died thinking that I hate him. So you're right. What I'm doing right now, it's too little. It's too late. I miss him, man. And I feel guilty as hell. And I'm not all right. Not at all. But neither are you. That much I know... I'll let you get back to work."_

Dean supposes Sam's words were meant to be soothing. "_Oh, dear brother, let us share our grief with a multitude of hugs while watching the most tear-jerking of chick flicks. I acknowledge your pain, now let's talk about our loss."_It doesn't take a genius to read between the lines. Sam wants to be open to Dean, wants Dean to be open to him, but his methods really suck. All Sam's words do is make Dean more angry than he already is. And, dang it, is he angry.

Angry at this crapfest of a world he has to live in. Angry at the demon for taking his life from him. Angry at Dad for selling his soul to save Dean. Hell, even angry at the Impala that he now has to work on double time because he totally destroyed the trunk in a fit of unadulterated rage.

But most of all, Dean is angry at himself. He's angry at himself for being slow. If he had been able to act quicker, he would have been able to save Dad. They could have figured out Dad was possessed earlier, then maybe they could have done something about it and they wouldn't have to rush to the hospital and get hit by an eight-wheeler on the way there. He's angry because he should be dead. He stands by his judgement that what's dead should stay dead, and that Dad shouldn't have done it. Dad should be alive, and Dean should be dead. It's that simple. Dad doesn't deserve hell, even if he chose to go there willingly. His dad is—was—a hero. If there was one person on this planet who deserved heaven, it was John Winchester. Dean's the one who deserves the pit, and he should be there right now instead of Dad. Like a token of Dad's sacrifice, there's a nasty scar that remains on Dean's forehead to remind him of the horrendous deeds that transpired. So bad is his anger that he can't even bring himself to look in a mirror in fear of seeing glimmers of the battle scars that are left from the car crash. The car crash that should have killed him.

Sam is right when he says that he's doing too little, too late. The time for apologies is long gone. Dad is dead, and saying sorry won't bring him back, as much as Dean hopes it will. All of Sam's unrequited actions that he's supposedly been doing in Dad's name are being done in vain. There's no way for Dad to know about his youngest's sudden loyalty to the Winchester cause. Dean's angry at Sam for trying, because he knows that it's too late. The time to obey Dad's wishes is past.

Dean throws the crowbar used to mutilate his baby to the ground of the scrapyard and storms away from the car. He goes back into Bobby's house, fists still clenched and muscles still tense, but he doesn't feel like he's going to punch anything anymore. He avoids Sam's gaze like the plague, since his brother for some reason feels the need to stare at him intently from the living room cough, and doesn't look Bobby in the eye when he pushes past him to grab a beer from the fridge. Yes, he's been drinking enough to buy out a brewery, but who's going to stop him? Sam? Sure. He's said it, he's wallowing in his own grief as well. They both have their ways, and this just happens to be Dean's.

He takes the drink up to his room. There, he ponders about swallowing it all down in large, unrelenting gulps. He thinks that maybe downing the drink quickly will bring the numbness he seeks._You can't go on like this_, part of him says, but the more logical side responds with an eloquent _Shove it_. He needs this right now, something to calm his nerves after destroying his beloved car.

To his surprise, he ends up abandoning the drink on the bedside table. He absently watches the condensation form around the glass and drip down to the faded wood table in a sort of daze. He clenches his jaw as tears threaten to spill over, trying to keep them at bay, but he fails. The sobs begin to choke him as they wrack his body, uncontrollable.

_I miss you, Dad._

_I miss you so much._

_Why'd you have to leave me?_

Dean doesn't remember much from when he was four, but he remembers with a surprising vividness the pain he'd felt after the fire when his mother had been cruelly ripped from him. It had been traumatizing, and he remembers from that day on, his life was no longer the apple pie it had once been. He remembers his Dad being different, not hugging him or picking him up as often as he used to be, and he remembers Sammy crying through the night, now attention-seeking and motherless. There's no possible way that Dean can remember his thoughts from back then, but he can imagine that they bear resemblance to them right now.

_It's so hard to accept the fact you're gone forever._

Dean sharply intakes a breath, trapped inside his mind, hard thoughts whirling around and stabbing him in the chest like ragged pieces of glass. Fond memories of Dad, combined with the not-so-fond ones, make for a painful recollection of everything Dad's meant to him in his twenty-six (he didn't even live to see his son's twenty-seventh) years of life. There are streams of tears falling down his face, so hard that he ignores the fact that he'd just mentally quoted Mariah Carey. His chest shakes with the heaving sobs, and he realizes that he's not fine. He can try and go on like everything's fine and peachy, but inside he will always be broken. He can't imagine going on like this for forever, but then again, he can't imagine putting it behind him. That's just not how Winchesters do things.

_I've never realized how much I need you, Dad._

What kills him the most is that he still has all of Dad's things. Dad's old guns, old phones, old journal. To have to had told Ellen that he's actually dead drives a stake into his heart, and he knows that she wasn't the last person they'd have to tell. Dad had lots of old acquaintances, lots of people who will eventually have to learn of the eldest Winchester's demise. But Dean won't tell the true story of the self-sacrificing man who sold his soul, instead saying he went down fighting. Somehow, saying how John gave up his soul for an eternity in hell to save his son didn't serve the man justice as a person. He was so much more than a man who made demon deals. He was a father, a man who saved lives.

Dean hates how easily he's taken to referring to his father in past tense.

He doesn't know exactly when the spots start dancing in front of his eyes, or when the air has become thicker and he feels as if he's going to suffocate. Some invisible force is crushing his chest and it feels like he's sucking air through a straw. He may still be crying, but he honestly can't focus. All that he's thinking of is his Dad—_dead_—and how lost he really is. He's reverted back to how he was twenty-two years ago, just a lost little boy who misses his mommy—or in this case, his dad. No air is getting into his lungs in his anxiety, and he's sure that he's going to die.

_I deserve it._

"Dean? Hey, man, calm down."

It's Sam. His little brother has his hand on Dean's back and is rubbing it soothingly. Dean sobs helplessly, and he can feel his cheeks flush in embarrassment despite the panic of no air entering his lungs.

"C'mon, Dean, just breathe."

Sam sounds so compelling that Dean does as he says. Sam is leaning against Dean, and he can feel his brother's steady breaths. He tries desperately to mimic them.

After a while, he's breathing more normally, but his head is spinning. The true shame of Sam finding him like this hits him, and he wipes all remaining tear streaks away from his red cheeks. His attempts to hide his true feelings from Sam have failed.

But that doesn't mean he's going to talk to him about them.

"Bobby called you down for dinner," Sam explains. "You didn't answer."

Dean breathes out slowly, still working to calm his erratic breathing.

"Dean…," Sam starts hesitantly. "You know you can talk to me, right?"

Dean doesn't meet his gaze and keeps his mouth shut. He stares at the wall in silence, willing Sam to get the message.

Sam sighs, now sounding irritated. "Fine," he mutters. "You don't want to talk, I get it. But you can't keep it all bottled up. You just had a freaking _panic attack_, dude."

_I can, and will_, Dean thinks. He stands up to distance himself from his brother and begins to walk away, but he's stopped when he feels Sam's sasquatch arms wrap around him in an awkward backwards hug. Dean stiffens, not open to Sam's affectionate display, but doesn't pull away.

"Don't do this," Sam whispers. "You've done this before and…I don't think can stand if you do it again."

Dean has no clue what "this" is, but he shoves his way out of Sam's grasp. He doesn't need to deal with this.

His dad is dead. There's no healing that wound.

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**Hope you enjoyed! Next chapter: After Sam's (first) death. I know, Dean has a whole mourning monologue in that episode, but I have an idea for it, so don't worry ;)**

**Feel free to leave a review, you won't regret it!**


	7. Ride the Lightning

**Another kinda short one, but I also like this one. Thank you to AltoOwl, ebonywarrior85, and qteallex for reviewing! You guys are awesome!**

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Dean's trying to pretend that Sam is sleeping. Sam had fallen asleep against him, exhausted from the Yellow-Eyed Demon toying with him and the other "Special Children," and now Dean is trying to get him somewhere else. Somewhere Sammy can fall asleep safely, where Dean can watch over him in case he has a nightmare. Fighting for your life against supernatural beings and kids with frightening abilities is mentally and physically draining, and Dean knows firsthand the types of dreams that can occur after a hunt gone wrong. And when Sammy wakes up—because he _will_ wake up—Dean will prepare him a greasy breakfast that they can share before tracking down that Jake fellow and the Yellow-Eyed Demon. They're so close, and now all they need to do is follow the trail that will lead them to vengeance for their mother and father's deaths. Then they can give up the hunt. Sam can go back to school, Dean can stay with Bobby and help out at the Salvage Yard, maybe go on a few small-scale hunts in his free time. Their lives can be normal, all because Sam is _sleeping_.

All of this is _so convincing_ when Dean thinks about it, and he's trying to block out reality with his wonderfully fabricated dream, but blood is leaking through a freaking _gap_ in Sam's back and he isn't _breathing_ and he has no _pulse_ and his baby brother is _dead _and there's nothing he can do about it.

Driving away from the cursed town that Sam had been abducted to and heading for Sioux Falls, Dean can feel Bobby staring at him. The whole drive is tense, and Dean's white-knuckling his steering wheel, as if worried the car will float away just as his brother has. Sam is laying—_asleep_—in the back seat and Dean is driving, afraid what he might do if he doesn't have something to take his mind off of the current situation. However, the Impala's rumble is anything but soothing at the moment, and Bobby's judgmental glances are making him want to scream or punch something.

But he does neither.

He stays silent, because he's angry. He's ruined. He's stunned. His _life _is_ over_. He can't go on. So he's staying silent.

Why talk when there's nothing to say?

They drive for ten hours straight, no stop. Dean's vaguely aware of Bobby requesting a short break, but Dean won't have it. They won't stop until they reach their destination. Finally, they pull into the gravel drive of a ramshackle little hut just outside of Sioux Falls. Bobby sends a questioning look at Dean, asking without words why they didn't go to his house, but Dean doesn't move. Bobby sighs heavily and heads out, starting to unload Sam from the back. Dean watches numbly as the older hunter struggles with the young man's weight by himself—he's in no way a small man—but doesn't leave the safety of the car. His hands are trembling, and he can feel the frustrated tears welling up in his eyes. He's nearing an emotional breakdown, and he can't go inside in this state. He lets the fat tears fall without even the slightest resistance. He doesn't normally allow himself to cry, but he's been holding in all of his feelings to too long now, and the dam is breaking. All of the pent-up emotions that have been eating up at him for years now are spilling out—and he _freakin' deserves it_. Everyone he's ever loved is dead. Gone. They've left him, and he can only imagine why.

Is it because he's a disappointment? Because he wasn't good enough? Mom left him at four years old because she didn't love him as much as he thought she did. He sure loved her, but she had left him. He was a failure even back then. Dad left him over twenty years later in a stupid deal that he phad saved Dean's life. Dean should be dead, but his Dad had chosen to leave him instead of letting Dean lave him. Now Sam's leaving him. His own brother. The person he's cared for since he was a six-month-old, whiny baby. What has he ever done? Where has he let his family down? He's only done _everything_ for the sake of family. He's never let them down, so why did they all leave him?

He's too trapped inside his mind to notice Bobby coming back to the car. The grizzled hunter opens Dean's door and, seeing him crying, pulls him into a tight hug. Dean doesn't return the gesture, only stiffens and continues to silently sob. He doesn't deserve Bobby's affection right now. He's done something wrong, so why should someone be treating him well? Sam is _dead_ because he's a bad brother, because he failed in his job as his little brother's protector. Dad is dead because he's a bad son. Mom is dead because he chose to save Sammy over her. Now it seems that effort was in vain.

Sam is gone, and he's not coming back.

He finds himself inside at some point, staring somberly at Sam's body. He's positioned like he's sleeping, which only further angers Dean. The fact that someone so _dead_ can look so at _peace_ is absolutely terrible. He clutches the door jamb too tightly, breaths coming out in shallow gasps as the truth really hits him for the first time since Sam had gotten stabbed. Sam's really dead. He's not sleeping. He's gone.

"I'm gonna grab something to eat," Bobby whispers. "Be back soon."

Dean doesn't even nod, just stares blankly at the corpse laying limply on that ragged, filthy mattress that just happens to be here. He knows that whatever Bobby brings back, he won't be eating. Why would he let himself enjoy that pleasure when his baby brother is sitting right in front of him, dead?

He's been standing in the same position for a few hours now, but time flies when you're trapping yourself with guilt and self-loathing. Bobby returns with two burgers in a greasy paper bag and a six-pack of Budweiser. Not really Dean's favorite, but it will suffice. Though if he had any say, he would opt for something a lot stronger than beer. He can't get wasted off of that stuff anymore. He grabs a beer and takes a long gulp, disregarding his favorite food sitting right under his nose—and it smells pretty good. However, he can't stomach anything right now. He sips a second time from his bottle. Except for booze, that is.

He stands vigil over Sam's corpse for two days. For two days, he lives off of beer and the overpowering self-hatred that comes with knowing that your brother is dead because you were too slow. Bobby comes and goes, trying to make conversation with Dean, but the latter never speaks a word. Until Sam's birthday.

He barely realizes that it's Sam's birthday. Would have been his twenty-third. Dean drinks to that.

Bobby enters with a bucket of fried chicken. He's been trying different foods these past few days, trying to find something that Dean would even look at, but he hasn't been successful. The only hit he's made is the beer he's been bringing over. As usual, Bobby announces his entrance with a, "Dean? Brought you this back." The old man holds up the bucket of KFC, which makes Dean's nose twitch at the unwelcome smell.

He clears his dry and rough throat before answering solemnly, "No thanks, I'm fine."

Bobby stops his movements, that much Dean can tell without turning around, but continues on as if nothing had happened. "You should eat something," he says.

Dean wonders briefly what the point of talking is if his opinions aren't even considered. "I said I'm fine," he reiterates, turning to Bobby—away from Sam. He goes to the old, wooden table to grab his drink, taking a hearty swallow from it. He savers the tingling liquid traveling down his throat and the nice buzz it gives his thoughts. He's not exactly cloudy yet, but he can feel himself getting there.

Dean can see the lump bob in Bobby's neck. He wants to say something, but he's hesitating. Dean almost wants to grab the man and yell at him to spit it out. "Dean," he begins, voice cautious, "I hate to bring this up, I really do, but don't you think it's time...to bury Sam?"

Dean's head swivels sideways. He glares at Bobby through suddenly-moist eyes. What does he think he's saying? "No," he replies gruffly, turning away from his surrogate father and taking a seat.

"Well we could...maybe..."

"What?" Dean interrupts, anger levels rising with every word he's spitting out. "Torch his corpse?" Bobby purses his lips and Dean shakes his head. "No," he repeats. "Not yet."

Bobby leans forward, stance now bordering on threatening. "I want you to come with me," he states firmly, an order he's been trying to give every time he's been over here. Every time Dean hasn't answered. He knows Bobby wants to take him back to his house, maybe chat about their feelings or hold a proper ceremony for Sam.

That's the last thing Dean wants right now: for his brother to be gone forever.

"I'm not going anywhere," Dean says.

Bobby sighs in exasperation. "Dean, please—"

"Would you cut me some slack?" he begs, voice rising in anger. He can tell that if Bobby pushes him any further, he'll blow.

"I just don't think you should be alone, that's all," Bobby continues. "I gotta admit, I could use your help."

Dean clenches his jaw. Why would he want to help hunt right now when his baby brother is sitting in the other room dead?

"Something big is going down," Bobby says. "End of the world—"

"Well then let it end!" Dean yells, looking at his uncle in hate. How can he possibly stand there and think that Dean wants to _hunt_? _He_ didn't just lose his last family member.

Bobby's head shakes slowly. "You don't mean that...," he whispers.

Dean stands up, knocking over his chair in the process. "You don't think so?" he asks, voice a deadly whisper. "Huh? You don't think I've given enough? You don't think I've payed enough?" He subtly nods his head over to where Sam is. "I'm done with it," he confesses. "All of it." He takes a shakey breath, then says softly, "If you know what's good for you then turn around and get the hell out of here."

It's the most words he's spoken in days, and when Bobby doesn't move, he shoves the old hunter backwards. "GO!" he screams.

Bobby looks at him in hurt and betrayal, and Dean realizes his mistake. "I'm sorry," he mutters brokenly. "I'm sorry. Please just go."

Bobby's face is drawn up with sorrow, but he obliges to Dean's wishes. "You know where I'll be," he eventually says, then leaves the shack.

Dean tries to steady his breathing. He's so angry, so deep in despair, and his voice hurts. He doesn't want to speak. A single tear rolls down his face when he glances back to Sam's body. He just wants to die.

The beer he's been working on is downed in a few minutes, and Dean finds himself sitting down, looking at Sam. His lips are parched and his throat is dry, but he eventually spits out some words.

He doesn't know exactly what he's saying, only that he's pouring his heart out, and it hurts. He talks about being Sam's sworn protector and how he'd always taken care of him when he was a little rug-rat, but now he's screwed that up. His only meaning in life, and now its gone.

He rambles for a while without stopping before the breathless sobs overtake him and he can't go on.

The only reason he's talking is because he knows that if he doesn't, he'll never speak a word again.

Once the tears subside, a thought flashes through his mind. A deadly, suicidal thought.

A thought that just might save Sam's life.

* * *

**It's late where I live, and I didn't feel like checking this over, so apologies for any mistakes. Let me know if there's anything that's absolutely screwed up.**

**I hope you enjoyed it, and I'd love you if you reviewed!**


	8. Escape

**I have two excuses for why this took so long. One: I was down with an awful migraine all last week, and Two: I had originally planned something different for this chapter, but have since then decided that this idea was much better. This chapter takes place after 4x16, _On the Head of a Pin_.**

**Anyways... thanks to AltoOwl, ebonywarrior85, and Zana Zira (three times!) for reviewing! You rock even more than you know you could rock!**

* * *

Sam reenters Dean's room just in time to see the angel Castiel flutter away. He takes in an angry breath when he sees Dean's green eyes open—though they're half-lidded and he looks just about ready to drop—and clutches his new-found cup of hospital coffee a bit too tightly. He'd stepped out for _two minutes_, and in those two minutes Dean had finally woken up. Woken up not to his loving brother Sam, but to the annoyingly stoic Castiel, the very celestial being who had dragged Dean from hell. Though Sam is eternally grateful for what the angel has done, he's still put off by those angels sticking their feathery behinds where they don't belong. And he's sure they don't like him either.

_Maybe it's because he's working side-by-side with a demon…_

Sam shakes his head slightly as if to dispel the thought. No, he's not working _with_ a demon, she's just assisting him in getting the revenge he needs. Sam's got her right where he wants her, and he's positive that there won't be any double-crossing. She understands what it's like to be human, and that's why she's helping him. He's also getting stronger, so strong that he'd killed the demon Alastair just yesterday. Sam can still feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins, though now the original kick of Ruby's blood is fading. So quickly that Sam's already itching for another fix. But that can wait. Right now, his brother needs him.

"Hey," Sam whispers, stepping into the plastic chair that's beside Dean's bed. He watches as Dean's eyes, heavy and sluggish, follow is motions. "What was Castiel doing there?"

A lump bobs in Dean's swollen and bruised neck that looks painful. Dean's eyes flicker down for a moment, and he doesn't answer.

"Dean," Sam tries, desperate to hear his brother's voice, "do I need to call a nurse? How are you feeling?"

Once again, he's only met with silence. Sam reaches out to grab Dean's hand, careful to avoid the many IVs that are stuck into it. He can't help but cringe at the heat that is radiating from his brother's skin, and wonders for a moment if he's getting ill. Sam internally groans. That's _just_ what they need right now.

_All_ of this is just crap. The angels and demons are trying to jump start Armageddon for some reason, some of them even working together in the process, and then Dean was beaten to a pulp while doing _what the angels told him to do_. The sixty-six seals are breaking like crazy, so it's crap that the angels want them to stop some when there's about a million others to be broken. Pamela _died_ for one of those seals. Who else will die so that the Winchesters can slow down the apocalypse by one measly second? It's all screwed up, and Sam hates it. He hates it all. The only peace he'll get is when he and Ruby finally kill Lilith, the one who started this whole thing. Then, and only then, will everything be alright again.

Dean removes his hand from under Sam's and shifts, turning his head away from his brother. His nasal cannula is threaded through his ears, giving him an even more pathetic appearance that his multitude of bruises and cuts haven't already supplied him with. Sam thinks he can see his brother shuddering, but he can't see his face so it's impossible to tell what's wrong. He's about to hit the nurse call button when he sees, by chance, a thick tear running down his brother's cheek. Sam sucks in a sharp breath, unable to say all that he wants to say. He wants to tell Dean that it's alright, that his wounds are only superficial, that he should be released soon, but he knows that the hurt Dean's feeling is much deeper than that. He doesn't know what's upset his brother, but he's sure that it's something to do with what Castiel told him.

Screw Castiel. He's the one who got Dean into this mess, yet he refuses to heal him. Screw Castiel for dragging Dean into a situation he's obviously uncomfortable with. Screw Castiel for being an inconsiderate jerk. Screw Castiel for coming in here while Sam was out and saying something to upset Dean, to the point where he isn't going to talk to Sam right now. And, just because Dean needs it a little harder right now, he's probably getting an illness from that ventilator or something. Sam sighs, rubbing a hand over his face wearily. He glances to Dean's now unmoving form. He's probably sleeping again, though he'd just woken up. Sam wishes he'd just wake up, say _something._

But for now, Dean Winchester sleeps on.

* * *

He has tuberculosis.

The doctors are baffled. They say that yes, it does happen, but they make sure that they set aside specially-sanctified ventilators for their ICU patients. They also explained how sometimes the disease can spread through hospital IVs. In short, they really don't know how it happened, but somehow, Dean has caught a strain of the illness.

He's being pumped full of drugs to combat the tuberculosis, along with the compromised immune system and low blood pressure that the doctors are said could be early signs of sepsis. Dean's barely been awake, but when he has, he's spent every breath coughing up sputum and, occasionally, blood. That bit freaked Sam out at first—still does, really—but the doctors assured him that all of his coughing has so damaged his throat that he's slightly hemorrhaging as small cuts open through his windpipe. They said that in the most reassuring way possible, but Sam had run to the restroom to vomit all of the coffee he'd intaken these past few days. This is all _crap_. Dean was supposed to be better in a few days, and now he's set himself up for a full-on hospital stay.

Sam doesn't do much, only sits by Dean's bedside. He's very liable to catching the disease from being in such close proximity to his brother, but he doesn't care. Dean wakes up, gasping for breath and immediately is thrown into a coughing fit. The nurses rush in to assist him, but Sam is already there beside Dean. The nurses all talk about his OX readings and his blood pressure dropping, but Sam only grabs his brother's arm, offering his touch as silent support. Dean is fine as long as Sam is here. He's sure of that.

Finally, Dean is calmed down and the swarm of nurses disperses. Dean's weary, pain-filled eyes drift over to Sam. His mouth moves wordlessly as if he wants to say something, but he only relaxes into his bed, shaking his arm free from Sam's hold.

"Dean?" Sam asks gently, hoping to get an answer for why his brother's being so withdrawn. There's no response, only a few badly-stifled coughs. Sam sighs. "Okay. I get it. I…I'll be here if you need me, alright?"

Dean coughs again, the sound wet and rattling. He averts his gaze, closing his fevered eyes in attempt to fall back to sleep. His fever rages on, hair matted down to his forehead with sweat, and his condition isn't improving. At least he didn't end up puking what little liquids he's ingested.

A few days later, the doctors are asking Sam permission to sedate Dean.

"Are you crazy?" Sam growls. The fact that he's been running on dry these past few days, combined with the fact that he's crazy worried about his brother, makes him _extremely_ pissy. He nearly grabs the doctor standing in front of him. "You are not doing anything else! Can't you tell that all of your 'ideas' so far have failed and that he isn't getting any better? You call yourselves doctors, yet you can't even make sure one of your patients doesn't contract a hospital-acquired illness! As if he doesn't already have enough on hi plate, you—"

"Mr. Norby, please calm down," the doctor pleads, calling Sam by the pseudonym on his insurance card. "We would like to sedate your brother to allow his body one time to rest. Right now, with his wake-sleep schedule being how it is, there's no way he's getting the healing he needs. We're only talking a few days, then if we see improvement, we'll talk about weaning him off the sedatives."

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. There's absolutely no way he's going to let them sedate Dean, temporary or not. "No," he says firmly.

"Mr. Norby, we want you to think of the wellbeing of your brother. His condition is very critical at this point," the doctor continues. He eyes Sam cautiously. "Are you doing all right yourself?"

"I'm fine," Sam grunts, though he knows what the doctor sees on his face. Withdrawal. His cheeks are flushed, pupils dilated, and he's longing to call Ruby up for just a small fix. He misses what he felt after he'd killed Alastair and the rush that came with it. He loves that feeling. He loves the power that surges through his veins after she lets him drink her blood. He doesn't know how much longer he can last like this. If he doesn't meet up with Ruby soon, he's afraid that he'll lose it. He _needs_ it.

But he also needs Dean.

"You…you can do what you have to," Sam concedes, noticing his hands trembling. Whether it's from his need for blood or his agonizing worry for Dean, he can't tell.

The doctor offers him a short smile. "Thank you. We hope to see some improvement in your brother's condition over the course of these next few days."

Sam hopes so.

* * *

Three days, and Dean hasn't improved.

They've fully intubated him now, and he appears as if he's in a coma. Sam hates it. At least when Dean was awake and hacking up whatever gunk was in his lungs, Sam was aware he was alive. Now, his only indications of life are the slow beeping of the heart monitor and the constant reassurances of hospital staff.

According to them, Dean's improving. The antibiotics are doing their jobs and the infection is clearing up, if only slightly. They still aren't happy with his blood pressure, but at least he's out of the danger zone for the most part. It's on day three that the doctors begin talking about taking him off the sedatives.

They tell him that it will be a while for him to wake up, and that when he does, they'll have to act quickly to take out the ventilation tube before he panics and chokes on it. Sam doesn't really listen to all this, only stares at his brother. He hopes that things are better when he awakens.

One of Dean's regular day nurses begs Sam to go home to sleep, at least for one night, but he refuses. Sam has been here since Dean was admitted over a week ago. He has nowhere to go, and has no desire to leave his brother's side. Even if he needs to go meet Ruby. He needs to be here when Dean wakes up.

He's drifting off a bit when he hears a hustle around him. He jerks awake to see bodies surrounding his brother's bed to the point where even he can't see Dean. He hears nurses relaying vitals, and also a horrible choking sound. Sam is frozen, unaware of what's happening, so he waits until he can see Dean again.

It takes a while before the crowd clears and Sam is aware of the doctor asking Dean questions. Sam's heart nearly stops. Dean is _awake_.

"Dean!" he gasps, the word coming out like a pained whisper. He doesn't care that he's interrupted whatever medical question his brother was just asked by the doctor. All that he cares about is the fact that Dean is awake and is _looking at him_.

He's still very sick, that much anyone can tell, but he does something that makes Sam want to hug him as tightly as he can.

He speaks.

"Sammy."

* * *

**Aww, that was sweet... I actually really enjoyed this one, with not only delving into Dean's mind, but also Sam's. I hope you liked it as well. :)**

**The next chapter will be a sad one... It will take place after Swan Song, so you all have an idea about how that one will go. Being the h/c lover that I am, I know that one will be fun.**

**I actually have a question for you all this chapter… Who's point of view do you enjoy reading more on these? Dean's or an outsider's (Sam, John, Bobby, etc.)?**

**Leave a review, I'd love to hear your thoughts!**


	9. The Thing That Should Not Be

**Whoa, this took longer than I'd like to get out… Sorry…**

**I like this chapter, and it went through many forms before this came out, and I think it came out good, so I hope you all enjoy it!**

**Thanks to AltoOwl, Zana Zira, qteallex, and ebonywarrior85 for reviewing!**

**(and if there's ever a chapter to review, it's this one, cause my birthday's on Sunday… XP)**

* * *

As Dean steps up to her doorstep, he has no clue what he's thinking. There's no way in hell she'll be crazy enough to let him in. He's been absent for too long, and Ben doesn't need a broken man as a substitute father. Lisa doesn't need a broken man as a substitute husband. His heart hurts too much right now, the very essence of his being ripped to shreds. He doesn't know how he's still standing, doesn't even know how he managed the drive here. It had taken him just under eleven hours to get here from Sioux Falls, after he'd said goodbye to Bobby. After the…_incident_, Dean had high-tailed the hell away from Stull Cemetery, away from Lawrence, away from it all. The whole five hour drive to Singer Salvage Yard had been spent in solitude, Dean's only companion the comforting rumble of the Impala. He had no feelings, had nothing running through his head other than _get away you need to get away from it all_. Cas had rode with Dean for the first few minutes of the drive, talking about how heaven was going to be in turmoil and whatnot, but had poofed away after. He'd spent a few hours at Bobby's in silence before he decided that he needed to leave. He was nothing but a dead weight in Bobby's house, and he couldn't bear the tenseness of the house's atmosphere. He'd quickly said goodbye to Bobby, given the old man a long, tired hug, then headed out. It was a long way from South Dakota to Cicero, Indiana, but Dean made it in record time. He'd ran every stop sign and red light, mind racing over everything that was happening. Many times he'd glanced over to the (empty) passenger seat, but he never dwelled on it. He had to stay focused to the ask at hand, and that was _getting away_ from this life.

He made a promise.

It had taken him nearly ten minutes to work up the courage to walk up to her doorstep, then another five to get his shaking hand to knock on her door. When the door finally opens up—'cause it feels like an eternity before it does—Lisa's face is ridden with shock and a dark sense that something's wrong. Dean's mind goes back to their previous meeting, when he'd told her that the crap was about to hit the fan. She'd been scared for him, since he hadn't specified exactly what he was doing—obviously, cause he didn't want to load that onto Lisa—then offered him a beer. He'd refused because he, too, was frightened. If he'd stayed to share a beer with Lisa, he'd ended up spilling his guts, telling her everything and scaring her even more.

"Hey, Lisa," he whispers, voice cracking ever so slightly. A shaky smile appears on his face, a lame attempt at trying to convince Lisa—convince himself—that he's fine.

"Oh, thank god," she murmurs under her breath, expressing her relief that Dean is alive. Her eyes frantically run up and down Dean's person. "Are you alright?"

Dean nods a bit. "Yeah. Uh, if it's not too late, I…think I'd like to take you up on that beer." His voice is breaking, and he's surpirsed that he hasn't broken down like a sissy yet. His lip is quivering, and he doesn't know if he can hold it in much longer.

"It's never too late," she whispers gently.

Lisa doesn't question him, doesn't say anything. Somehow, she knows it isn't the words that Dean needs. She leans forward and hug him, squeezing him as if he's going to disappear. He hugs her back with the same or greater intensity, his eyes finally welling up with tears. He hasn't cried since _it_ happened, but now he is. Lisa's triggered the downpour of his emotions, and now he can't stop the tears from falling. For the first time in the day since it happened, he's struck with the startling realization that Sam's gone. He jumped into the Pit, with Lucifer riding shotgun. He's never coming back because Dean made a promise. He's going to find an apple pie life, and not make a deal to get Sam back, even though every fiber of his being is telling him to do otherwise. He should shove Lisa away and head to the nearest crossroads, because who knows how long Sam's already spent in hell? It could be years for all Dean knows, and is probably making his tour look like a trip to Disney Land. But he can't. The least he can do now is grant his brother his dying wish.

So he embraces Lisa with all his might, burying his face into her neck as the tears refuse to stop falling. Though she can't see his face, she grips him tighter as his breath hitches and a sob escapes his lips. "Shh. It's okay," she whispers gently, her voice as smooth as silk as she calmingly and methodically rubs his back. "It's going to be okay."

He nods his head against her, not trusting his voice to say anything in return. He just relishes in the fact that she can hold him through his emotional breakdown.

He loses track of time, but eventually he's reduced to mere sniffles. His grip slightly lessens, and soon Lisa pulls away with a sad smile.

"See? Everything's going to be fine," she promises. Dean returns her smile and nods.

"Yeah," he says noncommittally, and follows her into the house. By the aromatic vapors that are filling the entry hall, Lisa had been cooking dinner. Dean tries to think to the last time he'd had a homemade dinner. The only time he can think of is before the fire, over twenty-six years ago. _It's been too long_. Lisa leads him to the kitchen, where Ben is sitting at the table with a fork in his hand, clearly in anticipation of eating. When he spots Dean, his eyes bulge out in shock. "Dean?" he asks incredulously.

Dean quirks a smile. "Hey, kiddo," he says affectionately, ruffling the kid's hair as he sits in the seat where Lisa's motioned for him to sit in. Lisa looks to Dean warily, as if wondering if he'll be okay in this family situation, but doesn't say anything as she grabs Dean a glass of whiskey. He nods in appreciation as he sips the burning liquid gratefully. He knows he'll be getting drunk tonight, so it's good to know that Lisa has some alcohol on hand. He'll need it.

Ben doesn't say anything about Dean's sudden appearance or why he's eating dinner with them, though Dean can see the judgmental questions whirling through the kid's mind. Dean doesn't blame him. Dean probably looks like crap, with his bloodshot eyes and te way he can't hold a grin for more than ten seconds before thoughts of _Sam and death and death and Sam_ overwhelm him. Ben's gotta be…what, ten now? Dean smiles slightly as he takes another drink. The kid's growing so fast.

Lisa lays down a plate in front of him, though he doesn't really look down at what it is. "You okay?" she asks softly, so quietly that Ben can't hear the inquiry.

"Yeah, I'm good," he mumbles in reply. His voice nearly catches in his throat though, so he takes another sip and savors the burning feeling of hard alcohol down his throat and in his stomach.

That evening goes on smoothly, and Dean actually feels as if he's apart of the family. Lisa completely disregards the reason for Dean's presence, instead mentioning how maybe Tom from the garage would maybe be able to offer Dean a job if he'll be staying for a while. She talks to Ben about school, and he proudly rushes to his backpack to present a science exam with a large "A" printed on it. Dean claps him on the back in congratulations like any parent would, but he doesn't speak. He doesn't feel like talking much anymore.

Finally, Ben goes to bed around ten pm—it's a weekend—and Dean's left alone with Lisa. He can tell that she wants to discuss what exactly happened earlier, but she can tell that he doesn't.

"You can come to bed at any time," she says quietly, squeezing Dean in a hug once again. "I'm going now because I have a shift early tomorrow morning. Just promise you won't bail on me in the middle of the night?"

Dean nods once. He has nowhere else to go.

"I guess I'll contact Ben's babysitter and let her know she won't be needed tomorrow," she muses, running a free hand through Dean's hair in a way that reminds him of his mother. "You okay with that?"

"Yeah," he whispers, voice rough. He'd be happy to look after Ben while Lisa's off at work. It will take his mind off of Sam.

A choking lump gets caught in his throat when he thinks about Sam. Lisa must notice, because she rubs his back. "It's all right, Dean," she whispers. "I'm here, you're here now. You'll be okay here." When Dean doesn't verbally respond, she gives him one last squeeze and retires to bed.

The whiskey muddles his mind that night, much to his pleasure. He's not quite two sheets to the wind, but he's getting there. However, when he thinks about the inconvenience—and rudeness—of being hungover his first day with the Braedens, he replaces the whiskey bottle where it came from and heads upstairs to Lisa's room. He's a little unsure whether he should actually get in bed with her and risk waking her, or just sleep downstairs on the couch, but Lisa's sleep-filled voice murmurs, "Come on, I'm not asleep yet anyway."

A ghost of a smile appears on Dean's face, and he shuffles over to the other side of the bed to crawl in with Lisa, not noticing that he's still in his jeans and boots. Somehow, after he returned from hell, it hadn't seemed like a necessity to change into pajamas, lest you need to get up and run in the middle of the night. He feels awkward and vulnerable without a gun underneath his pillow, but somehow, when he holds Lisa in his arms and they both drift to sleep, it doesn't matter.

* * *

Hell.

Fire.

Torture.

_Hell and fire and blood and torture and Alastair, oh NO!_

Lucifer.

Jumping… He's jumping…

_Hell, no no no, SAMMY!_

_NO NO NO NO!_

_SAM!_

Dean wakes up with a gasp, sweat plastering his shirt to his chest. Lisa stirs, eyes opening sluggishly as she detects his rough wakening. His eyes fly around the room, unaware for a moment of where he is, and why is there a woman in his bed, and _where the hell is Sam_?

He sees the door to the master bathroom and bolts towards it, bile rising in his thought as reality floods back to him. He pukes into the toilet, clutching his burning throat and gasping for breath. He's dying. His arms are shaking as he white-knuckles the toilet seat, and sweat is dripping in front of his face. He can sense Lisa hovering at the door, but is too busy concentrating on how to breath. He can't get any air in, and he keeps seeing Sam jumping, jumping, jumping over and over again. He hears Lucifer cackling in his brother's body, and sees Sam descending into the hole, into the darkest depths of hell. _Sam's trapped down there_. He's trapped, with a pissed off Lucifer and a pissed off Michael and their baby brother Adam's soul. Dean thinks about his years in hell, about all the tearing and grinding and burning pains, and decide that Sam's hell with the devil himself must be a _billion_ times worse than his own. Alastair was bad, but Alastair looked up to Lucifer. Lucifer _created_ demons in the first place, probably created torture and tough Alastair all he knows. Dean gags as more bile comes up; the thought makes him physically sick.

"Dean…." Lisa's voice trails off, wonderfully soft. Dean silently begs her not to come over to him, as he already looks pitiful from afar. He must look like a blubbering mess up close, with tears streaming down his face and vomit leaking from his mouth.

But she must not be able to simply stand by, because now she's rubbing soothing circles on his back. Dean suspects that she's gone through this same routine many times with Ben. She's murmuring soothing seances, but Dean's not relaxing the slightest bit. He can't stop witnessing his brother's death in his mind.

"Dean, baby," Lisa whispers. "Talk to me. _Please_."

Dean shakes his head pitifully. He doesn't want to talk right now. He _can't_ talk right now. He knows Lisa wants him to spill his guts—and not this literally—but he isn't prepared to talk about Sam. Hell, he can barely think about him without choking up. Everything in the past forty-eight hours has just been _too much_. Maybe someday he'll talk about Sam as if the whole thing was just a bad dream, but today is not that day. Today, he can't bring any words to his lips.

"It's okay," Lisa says, conceding to the fact that Dean isn't responding. "I just need you to talk to me so I can help."

Dean gives up his position over the porcelain bowl and looks in Lisa's wide eyes. He hates the worry in them, and the fact that he placed that distress there. He clears his throat softly, rubbing his stinging eyes, and whispers, "I can't talk about it, Lis. I'm sorry, just not now. I…I _can't_—"

"Shh," Lisa coos, and gently caresses his face. "It's okay, I won't push you. You just can't do this to yourself."

Dean nods and palms at his eyes instinctively to rid any signs that he was crying. "I know," he murmurs. "It's just too much… I can't _take_ it, Lis…"

She engulfs him in a hug, the third one in twelve hours. He feels so warm and comforted in her hold, but he doesn't cry this time. He doesn't know if he _can _cry any more. He just sighs into Lisa's hair, ignoring the stench of vomit on his breath, and lets himself relax for once.

He's safe here, yes, but the dreams will never evade him. Those images…they'll never leave his mind. And he'll never see Sam ever again. Those are just the facts. But for now, until he can find a loophole to his promise to Sam, he'll let himself live on with Lisa and Ben. He'll still bear the suffocating guilt and self-loathing that comes with seeing your brother jump to his death, but those feelings will never go away.

He returns to bed with Lisa, but he doesn't sleep the rest of the night. Each time he closes his eyes, he sees macabre vision of hell and hears Lucifer's chilling voice reverberating around in his skull. Every time he blinks, he witnesses Sam's jump. He can still feel the phantom pain from where Sam's fists hit his face, can still feel the blood leaking from his nose and the abrasions on his face. Lisa gets out of bed before the sun rises to get ready for work, but he doesn't stir, still pretending to sleep. She hums softly as she dresses and grabs her things, before exiting the room. Dean sighs roughly, and slowly pulls himself into a sitting position. He has a slight headache, but nothing more. Insomnia has allowed him time to think over everything, so he doesn't feel as if he's going to cry anymore. Good, because he has to look over Ben today.

He's not that worried about the kid, since he knows he won't be a problem child. And he's had years of experience looking after Sam…

_No_. Don't think about Sam.

Once he's sure that Lisa's left, he takes a shower and heads downstairs, hoping to get himself a cup of coffee (and if a shot of whiskey finds its way in there, he's not complaining). He sees that Ben's already awake, watching TV languidly. Once he hears Dean descending the stairs, he smiles at him and says, "Hey, Dean. You wanna watch cartoons with me?"

Dean's stomach lurches, and he has the feeling that he's going to puke again. Ben's innocent question reminded him _so much_ of Sammy when he was that age, and he wants to go punch something. "Maybe in a bit, kiddo," he chokes out, and ushers himself quickly to the kitchen before he does something he may regret.

He spots the coffee pot, and is relieved to see that it's already brewed. Lisa must have left it on for him. He grabs the pot and pours himself some in a mug, sipping at it tenderly. Honestly, though, he doesn't _want_ to be sitting here in domestic bliss, drinking coffee like some monkey suit-wearing executive idiot about to head off for a day at the office. As much as he loves the kid, he doesn't want to be here watching over Ben. He wants to be out _there_, killing things and letting out his anger. He's past the initial grief, though it still claws painfully at his soul, and now he wants to punch and kick and stab everything, _anything_. Just like when Dad died and he raged his emotions on the poor Impala. If he doesn't watch himself, he may end up doing the same thing to her again, or worse, to Lisa's house. He can imagine rampaging through the suburban home and destroying everything in his path because he's _so damned mad_.

"Dean?"

Oh, great. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and takes in a slow breath. He knew that Ben would want to confront him at some point, but he's not ready to talk right now. Not to Lisa, not to Ben, not to anyone. So he calmly says, "Ben, if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk right now—"

"Dean, I just wanted to ask you something." Ben looks down at his feet, pausing hesitantly, before continuing, "Mom told me not to bother you too much, but she wouldn't tell me why, just that you're in a bad place right now and that you might be staying here for a while, and I wanted to see if you could tell me why, 'cause no one ever tells me anything, and I heard some noises from Mom's bathroom last night late—the walls are really thin—and they weren't the same noises that I hear when she has a boyfriend over for the night, and I was also wondering are you okay?"

Once again, Dean is torn between bawling and lashing out. Ben sounds _so much_ like Sammy. "Ben—," he starts, prepared divert the conversation into something else, but the kid cuts him off.

"No, don't give me the 'you're too young to hear this' crap!" he exclaims. He makes eye contact with Dean, and his stubborn gaze makes him feel as if he's staring into a de-aged Sam—only Sam's eyes are green and not brown. "I'm really worried about you, Dean, 'cause you barely talked at dinner last night and I _heard_ you crying when you came in! I wanna know what happened. You can trust me."

Dean sighs and rubs his eyes a bit, willing the fat tears not to fall. His voice cracks as he whispers, "It's a really long and crappy story. You don't want to hear it."

But instead of turning away like Dean had hoped he would, Ben takes a seat next to Dean. "Tell me," he insists.

Maybe it's those begging, brown eyes, or maybe it's the way Dean feels as if Ben is the son he never had. Whatever the reason, he recounts the tale to Ben. Or, the kid-friendly version. "Y-you remember my brother Sam, right?" Dean asks, voice low and gruff. Ben nods. "Well, h-he's gone. I… Things were going down, big time, and the only way to stop it was for us to… Sam had to…" Dean runs his hand over his face and lets out a shaky sigh. "I-I can't do this."

"C'mon, Dean," Ben eggs on, the tiniest grin on his face to encourage Dean. "You'll have to say it sometime."

"I know, it's just…" Dean shakes his head, drinking another sip and wishing that the whole mug of coffee could be replaced with a beer. "Sammy, he…he saved the world, but he sacrificed himself along the way." Dean holds his head in his hands, not willing to let Ben see his teary eyes. "I told your mom… I promised Sammy that I'd come back to her to live a normal life after he was…_gone_, but I don't know, Ben. I-I don't think I can do it."

Suddenly, Ben's arms are wrapped around Dean's middle, and he's blubbering like a baby again. He's sick and tired of crying, but he can't stop it. He's emotionally overwhelmed, he freaking _deserves_ some coping time. "It's okay, Dean," Ben says into Dean's shirt as the older man continues to sob. "Me and Mom'll be here for you. I promise."

And in that moment, for the first time in nearly twenty-six years, Dean feels accepted again.

* * *

As Lisa returns from work that day, she notices that the house is far too quiet. She peeks around, and her heart clenches when she sees that Ben and Dean are asleep together on the couch, the television playing softly in the background. She smiles warmly at the sight; Ben _needs_ a father-figure, even if that man is filled to the top with his own problems. She's seen Dean with Ben before, and knows that he'll come around eventually. Seeing their current positions, she knows that it was a good idea to let Dean back into their lives. He'll complete their family as they help him through whatever he's going through at the moment. It might not be the perfect family dynamic, but it will work for them. Lisa knows it.

It takes nearly a month for Dean to completely start talking again. He shut himself off from Lisa and Ben after his first day with them, choosing instead to wallow in his own issues silently. It's scary, since Lisa knows Dean as the cocky, wisecracking man that he is, but she understand once she's told what had happened. Ben had told her that Sam was gone, and that was all the explanation that was needed for Dean's out of character behavior. Sam was his life, his sole purpose for living, and now he was gone. No wonder Dean felt like closing himself off. Why, if Lisa ever lost Ben…

He's been drinking a lot, more than once passing out in alcohol-induced stupors. Lisa mostly doesn't mind, only gives him a blanket since he's fallen asleep on the couch and tells Ben to leave him be. As long as Dean doesn't get violent when he's drunk, Lisa will be okay with it.

It's right about at the one-month mark when Dean finally tells Lisa himself what had happened. Though, unlike Ben, he's given her the whole story.

God, it's awful. The whole _Lucifer/Apocalypse/Angel_ thing is beyond Lisa's comprehending, but she understands the parts where Dean was beaten senseless by his own brother (though it was really Lucifer wearing his brother's skin) and when Sam had jumped into an eternal pit to save the world. She can't imagine having to witness it as Dean had, though she doesn't have to.

All she has to do is be there for him.

* * *

**Yay, (sort of) happy ending!**

**The next chapter will be after episode 6x14, once Dean loses Ben and Lisa and Cas erases their memories.**

**Don't forget to leave a review if you liked it!**


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